Thomas Carlyle, that gifted author, when he passed the spot where he had last seen his wife alive, would bare his old head in wind or rain, his features wrung with bitter, unavailing sorrow. "Oh", he would say, "if I could see her but for five minutes, to assure her that I really cared for her throughout all that time! But she never knew it—she never knew it!"
We must give account for our idle silences as well as for our idle words.
|Taken from the book Secrets of a Happy Home Life by J.R. Miller 1894|