Clemens that summer wrote, or rather finished, his most pretentious poem.  One day at Riverdale, when Mrs. Clemens had been with him on the lawn, they had remembered together the time when their family of little folks had filled their lives so full, conjuring up dream-like glimpses of them in the years of play and short frocks and hair-plaits down their backs.  It was pathetic, heart-wringing fancying; and later in the day Clemens conceived and began the poem which now he brought to conclusion.  It was built on the idea of a mother who imagines her dead child still living, and describes to any listener the pictures of her fancy.  It is an impressive piece of work; but the author, for some reason, did not offer it for publication.—­[This poem was completed on the anniversary of Susy’s death and is of considerable length.  Some selections from it will be found under Appendix U, at the end of this work.]

Mrs. Clemens, whose health earlier in the year had been delicate, became very seriously ill at York Harbor.  Howells writes: 

At first she had been about the house, and there was one gentle afternoon when she made tea for us in the parlor, but that was the last time I spoke with her.  After that it was really a question of how soonest and easiest she could be got back to Riverdale.

She had seemed to be in fairly good health and spirits for several weeks after the arrival at York.  Then, early in August, there came a great celebration of some municipal anniversary, and for two or three days there were processions, mass-meetings, and so on by day, with fireworks at night.  Mrs. Clemens, always young in spirit, was greatly interested.  She went about more than her strength warranted, seeing and hearing and enjoying all that was going on.  She was finally persuaded to forego the remaining ceremonies and rest quietly on the pleasant veranda at home; but she had overtaxed herself and a collapse was inevitable.  Howells and two friends called one afternoon, and a friend of the Queen of Rumania, a Madame Hartwig, who had brought from that gracious sovereign a letter which closed in this simple and modest fashion: 

I beg your pardon for being a bore to one I so deeply love and admire, to whom I owe days and days of forgetfulness of self and troubles, and the intensest of all joys-hero-worship!  People don’t always realize what a happiness that is!  God bless you for every beautiful thought you poured into my tired heart, and for every smile on a weary way.  Carmen Sylva.

This was the occasion mentioned by Howells when Mrs. Clemens made tea for them in the parlor for the last time.  Her social life may be said to have ended that afternoon.  Next morning the break came.  Clemens, in his notebook for that day, writes: 

Tuesday, August 12, 1902.  At 7 A.M.  Livy taken violently ill.  Telephoned and Dr. Lambert was here in 1/2 hour.  She could not breathe-was likely to stifle.  Also she had severe palpitation.  She believed she was dying.  I also believed it.