o Twichell he said:

How sweet she was in death, how young, how beautiful, how like her
dear girlish self of thirty years ago, not a gray hair showing!
This rejuvenescence was noticeable within two hours after her death;
& when I went down again (2.30) it was complete. In all that night
& all that day she never noticed my caressing hand--it seemed
strange.

To Howells he recalled the closing scene:

I bent over her & looked in her face & I think I spoke--I was
surprised & troubled that she did not notice me. Then we understood
& our hearts broke. How poor we are to-day!

But how thankful I am that her persecutions are ended! I would not
call her back if I could.

To-day, treasured in her worn, old Testament, I found a dear &
gentle letter from you dated Far Rockaway, September 13, 1896, about
our poor Susy's death. I am tired & old; I wish I were with Livy.

And in a few days:

It would break Livy's heart to see Clara. We excuse ourself from all the
friends that call--though, of course, only intimates come. Intimates
--but they are not the old, old friends, the friends of the old, old
times when we laughed. Shall we ever laugh again? If I could only see a
dog that I knew in the old times & could put my arms around his neck and
tell him all, everything, & ease my heart!

CCXXXII

THE SAD JOURNEY HOME

A tidal wave of sympathy poured in. Noble and commoner, friend and
stranger--humanity of every station--sent their messages of condolence to
the friend of mankind. The cablegrams came first--bundles of them from
every corner of the world--then the letters, a steady inflow. Howells,
Twichell, Aldrich--those oldest friends who had themselves learned the
meaning of grief--spoke such few and futile words as the language can
supply to allay a heart's mourning, each recalling the rarity and beauty
of the life that had slipped away. Twichell and his wife wrote:

DEAR, DEAR MARK,--There is nothing we can say. What is there to say?
But here we are--with you all every hour and every minute--filled with
unutterable thoughts; unutterable affection for the dead and for the
living.
HARMONY AND JOE.

Howells in his letter said:

She hallowed what she touched far beyond priests . . . . What are you
going to do, you poor soul?

A hundred letters crowd in for expression here, but must be denied--not,
however, the beam of hope out of H