It was not at all necessary for you to see me to the Station that rainy day; I=m used to going alone in all sorts of weather and environs [and] had you gone with me I should have felt as if I was taking you from your work and that would have made me wretched.

Last evening the Express man brought me your splendid gift of Books.

Now it is absurd for me to say I thank you over and over; you know all about that and I am sure will be satisfied assured of my great pleasure.

I spent the whole evening—quite by my self—in looking through the Vols and it is great fun to take them up, one after an other, turn the leaves that are so familiar, and then conclude with the autograph of which I am very proud.

It seems to me Mark tha[t] no one can ev fully appreciate the “Innocents” who has not been over at least part of the ground himself. So long as “Innocents” continue to travel that Volume must endure!

By the bye?—did I ever tell you of a man, an unknown admirer of this book, ruined in Wall St during the panic, who went to his room one day with the intention of blowing his brains out: the “Innocents” lay on his table and he absently took it in hand; turned the leaves, read here and there, began to smile, finally laughed him self into a healthy mind and postponed his suicide indeffinitely.

This fact he related to the gentleman who told it in my hearing, about one year ago.

The photos of the Babies which I brought back with me so charmed Mr Edward Spring, Sculptor, eldest son of this house, that he is making a small medalion of the two heads in wax.

I think it will be a success—will report if it is: he does it for his own pleasure and thinks the photo remarkably fine. I am so sorry I have none of Mrs Clemens.

Farewell, dear Mark; Best regards to all your house; I shall be very happy to enter it again some day; mean while,