“Our dear prisoner is where she is through overwork—­day and night
   devotion to the children and me.  We did not know how to value it. 
   We know now.”

And on the margin of a letter praising him for what he had done for the world’s enjoyment, and for his triumph over debt, he wrote: 

   “Livy never gets her share of those applauses, but it is because the
   people do not know.  Yet she is entitled to the lion’s share.”

She improved during the winter, but very slowly.  Her husband wrote in his diary: 

   “Feb. 2, 1903—­Thirty-third wedding anniversary.  I was allowed to
   see Livy five minutes this morning, in honor of the day.”

Mrs. Clemens had always remembered affectionately their winter in Florence of ten years before, and she now expressed the feeling that if she were in Florence again she would be better.  The doctors approved, and it was decided that she should be taken there as soon as she was strong enough to travel.  She had so far improved by June that they journeyed to Elmira, where in the quiet rest of Quarry Farm her strength returned somewhat and the hope of her recovery was strong.

Mark Twain wrote a story that summer in Elmira, in the little octagonal study, shut in now by trees and overgrown with vines.  “A Dog’s Tale,” a pathetic plea against vivisection, was the last story written in the little retreat that had seen the beginning of “Tom Sawyer” twenty-nine years before.

There was a feeling that the stay in Europe was this time to be permanent.  On one of the first days of October Clemens wrote in his note-book: 

   “To-day I place flowers on Susy’s grave—­for the last time, probably
   —­and read the words, ’Good night, dear heart, good night,
   good night.’”

They sailed on the 24th, by way of Naples and Genoa, and were presently installed in the Villa Reale di Quarto, a fine old Italian palace, in an ancient garden looking out over Florence toward Vallombrosa and the Chianti hills.  It was a beautiful spot, though its aging walls and cypresses and matted vines gave it a rather mournful look.  Mrs. Clemens’s health improved there for a time, in spite of dull, rainy, depressing weather; so much so that in May, when the warmth and sun came back, Clemens was driving about the country, seeking a villa that he might buy for a home.

On one of these days—­it was a Sunday in early June, the 5th—­when he had been out with Jean, and had found a villa which he believed would fill all their requirements, he came home full of enthusiasm and hope, eager to tell the patient about the discovery.  Certainly she seemed better.  A day or two before she had been wheeled out on the terrace to enjoy the wonder of early Italian summer.

He found her bright and cheerful, anxious to hear all their plans for the new home.  He stayed with her alone through the dinner hour, and their talk was as in the old days.  Summoned to go at last, he chided himself for staying so long; but she said there was no harm and kissed him, saying, “you will come back?” and he answered “Yes, to say good night,” meaning at half-past nine, as was the permitted custom.  He stood a moment at the door, throwing kisses to her, and she returned them, her face bright with smiles.