My time is become so short, now, that I doubt if I get to California this summer.  If I manage to buy into a paper, I think I will visit you a while and not go to Cal. at all.  I shall know something about it after my next trip to Hartford.  We all go there on the 10th—­the whole family —­to attend a wedding, on the 17th.  I am offered an interest in a Cleveland paper which would pay me $2,300 to $2,500 a year, and a salary added of $3,000.  The salary is fair enough, but the interest is not large enough, and so I must look a little further.  The Cleveland folks say they can be induced to do a little better by me, and urge me to come out and talk business.  But it don’t strike me—­I feel little or no inclination to go.

I believe I haven’t anything else to write, and it is bed-time.  I want to write to Orion, but I keep putting it off—­I keep putting everything off.  Day after day Livy and I are together all day long and until 10 at night, and then I feel dreadfully sleepy.  If Orion will bear with me and forgive me I will square up with him yet.  I will even let him kiss Livy.

My love to Mollie and Annie and Sammie and all.  Good-bye. 
                              Affectionately,
          
                                        Sam.

It is curious, with his tendency to optimism and general expansion of futures, that he says nothing of the possible sales of the new book, or of his expectations in that line.  It was issued in July, and by June the publishers must have had promising advance orders from their canvassers; but apparently he includes none of these chickens in his financial forecast.  Even when the book had been out a full month, and was being shipped at the rate of several hundreds a day, he makes no reference to it in a letter to his sister, other than to ask if she has not received a copy.  This, however, was a Mark Twain peculiarity.  Writing was his trade; the returns from it seldom excited him.  It was only when he drifted into strange and untried fields that he began to chase rainbows, to blow iridescent bubbles, and count unmined gold.

To Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis: 

Buffalo, Aug. 20, 1869.  My dear sister,—­I have only time to write a line.  I got your letter this morning and mailed it to Livy.  She will be expecting me tonight and I am sorry to disappoint her so, but then I couldn’t well get away.  I will go next Saturday.

I have bundled up Livy’s picture and will try and recollect to mail it tomorrow.  It is a porcelaintype and I think you will like it.