“Grief is the Parent of Fame.”
Claude was miles away from home ere he noticed faithful Fingal trotting near him.
His first thought was to order him back, but this poor dog, as if reading his mind, crouched low at his feet, looking beseechingly up.
“This is my home,” he appeared to plead.
Claude’s next thought was to take him back; his mother might even ere now have relented. But that Highland pride, which has been at once the glory and the curse of Auld Scotland, stepped in and forbade.
Young Claude went on.
“Grief,” says one of England’s greatest novelists—Lord Lytton—“is the parent of fame.”
This is so true! Many and many a grief-stricken, sorrow-laden man and woman in this world would faint and fail and die, did they not fall back upon work to support them. This is the tonic that sustains tens of thousands of sorely stricken ones, until Time, the great healer, has assuaged the floods of their sorrow.