By Clara he sent word
that he wished to see me, and when I came in he spoke of two unfinished
manuscripts which he wished me to "throw away," as he briefly expressed
it, for his words were few, now, and uncertain. I assured him that I
would attend to the matter and he pressed my hand. It was his last word
to me. During the afternoon, while Clara stood by him, he sank into a
doze, and from it passed into a deeper slumber and did not heed us any
more.
Through that peaceful spring afternoon the life-wave ebbed lower and
lower. It was about half-past six, and the sun lay just on the horizon,
when Dr. Quintard noticed that the breathing, which had gradually become
more subdued, broke a little. There was no suggestion of any struggle.
The noble head turned a little to one side, there was a fluttering sigh,
and the breath that had been unceasing for seventy-four tumultuous years
had stopped forever.
In the Brick Church, New York, Mark Twain--dressed in the white he loved
so well--lay, with the nobility of death upon him, while a multitude of
those who loved him passed by and looked at his face for the last time.
Flowers in profusion were banked about him, but on the casket lay a
single wreath which Dan Beard and his wife had woven from the laurel
which grows on Stormfield hill.
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