How could he have guessed? Of
course, he had forgotten them. Later, they had disappeared again;
it had never occurred to him to think. Often in the earlier days
she had tried to talk to him about his work. Had he but looked into
her eyes, he might have understood. But she had always been so
homely-seeming, so good. Who would have suspected? Then suddenly
the blood rushes into his face. What must have been her opinion of
his work? All these years he had imagined her the amazed devotee,
uncomprehending but admiring. He had read to her at times,
comparing himself the while with Moliere reading to his cook. What
right had she to play this trick upon him? The folly of it! The
pity of it! He would have been so glad of her."
"What becomes, I wonder," mused the Philosopher, "of the thoughts
that are never spoken? We know that in Nature nothing is wasted;
the very cabbage is immortal, living again in altered form. A
thought published or spoken we can trace, but such must only be a
small percentage. It often occurs to me walking down the street.
Each man and woman that I pass by, each silently spinning his silken
thought, short or long, fine or coarse.
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