We do not get the idea from this letter that those two long ago sweethearts quarreled, but Mark Twain once spoke of their having done so, and there may have been a disagreement, assuming that there was a subsequent meeting.  It does not matter, now.  In speaking of it, Mark Twain once said:  “It is as pathetic a romance as any that has crossed the field of my personal experience in a long lifetime.”—­[When Mark Twain:  A Biography was written this letter had not come to light, and the matter was stated there in accordance with Mark Twain’s latest memory of it.]

Howells wrote:  “After all, how poor and hackneyed all the inventions are compared with the simple and stately facts.  Who could have imagined such a heart-break as that?  Yet it went along with the fulfillment of everyday duty and made no more noise than a grave under foot.  I doubt if fiction will ever get the knack of such things.”

Jane Clemens now lived with her son Orion and his wife, in Keokuk, where she was more contented than elsewhere.  In these later days her memory had become erratic, her realization of events about her uncertain, but there were times when she was quite her former self, remembering clearly and talking with her old-time gaiety of spirit.  Mark Twain frequently sent her playful letters to amuse her, letters full of such boyish gaiety as had amused her long years before.  The one that follows is a fair example.  It was written after a visit which Clemens and his family had paid to Keokuk.

To Jane Clemens, in Keokuk: 

Elmira, Aug. 7, ’86.  Dear ma,—­I heard that Molly and Orion and Pamela had been sick, but I see by your letter that they are much better now, or nearly well.  When we visited you a month ago, it seemed to us that your Keokuk weather was pretty hot; Jean and Clara sat up in bed at Mrs. McElroy’s and cried about it, and so did I; but I judge by your letter that it has cooled down, now, so that a person is comparatively comfortable, with his skin off.  Well it did need cooling; I remember that I burnt a hole in my shirt, there, with some ice cream that fell on it; and Miss Jenkins told me they never used a stove, but cooked their meals on a marble-topped table in the drawing-room, just with the natural heat.  If anybody else had told me, I would not have believed it.  I was told by the Bishop of Keokuk that he did not allow crying at funerals, because it scalded the furniture.  If Miss Jenkins had told me that, I would have believed it.  This reminds me that you speak of Dr. Jenkins and his family as if they were strangers to me.  Indeed they are not.  Don’t you suppose I remember gratefully how tender the doctor was with Jean when she hurt her arm, and how quickly he got the pain out of the hurt, whereas I supposed it was going to last at least an hour?  No, I don’t forget some things as easily as I do others.

Yes, it was pretty hot weather.  Now here, when a person is going to die, he is always in a sweat about where he is going to; but in Keokuk of course they don’t care, because they are fixed for everything.  It has set me reflecting, it has taught me a lesson.  By and by, when my health fails, I am going to put all my affairs in order, and bid good-bye to my friends here, and kill all the people I don’t like, and go out to Keokuk and prepare for death.