The plants were set in the ground, and the flowering vines climbed up the sides and overhung the roof above the silent spray of the fountain companied by Callas and other waterloving lilies.  There, while we breakfasted, Patrick came in from the barn and sprinkled the pretty bower, which poured out its responsive perfume in the delicate accents of its varied blossoms.

In the library was an old carved mantel which Clemens and his wife had bought in Scotland, salvage from a dismantled castle, and across the top of the fireplace a plate of brass with the motto, “The ornament of a house is the friends that frequent it,” surely never more appropriately inscribed.

There was the mahogany room, a large bedroom on the ground floor, and upstairs were other spacious bedrooms and many baths, while everywhere were Oriental rugs and draperies, and statuary and paintings.  There was a fireplace under a window, after the English pattern, so that in winter-time one could at the same moment watch the blaze and the falling snow.  The library windows looked out over the valley with the little stream in it, and through and across the tree-tops.  At the top of the house was what became Clemens’s favorite retreat, the billiard-room, and here and there were unexpected little balconies, which one could step out upon for the view.

Below was a wide, covered veranda, the “ombra,” as they called it, secluded from the public eye—­a favorite family gathering-place on pleasant days.

But a house might easily have all these things without being more than usually attractive, and a house with a great deal less might have been as full of charm; only it seemed just the proper setting for that particular household, and undoubtedly it acquired the personality of its occupants.

Howells assures us that there never was another home like it, and we may accept his statement.  It was unique.  It was the home of one of the most unusual and unaccountable personalities in the world, yet was perfectly and serenely ordered.  Mark Twain was not responsible for this blissful condition.  He was its beacon-light; it was around Mrs. Clemens that its affairs steadily revolved.

If in the four years and more of marriage Clemens had made advancement in culture and capabilities, Olivia Clemens also had become something more than the half-timid, inexperienced girl he had first known.  In a way her education had been no less notable than his.  She had worked and studied, and her half-year of travel and entertainment abroad had given her opportunity for acquiring knowledge and confidence.  Her vision of life had vastly enlarged; her intellect had flowered; her grasp of practicalities had become firm and sure.