“No,” said Dolores; “I cannot think as you do. I cannot think that the way to honour the memory of one who was loved, is to make one’s own life emptier. I am sure she would not feel it so. Surely the effort of rising above a life of passive remorse, and filling the days with striving, would be a better tribute.” “Passive remorse!” said Claverhouse, pressing his elbows on the desk. “I mean that it achieves nothing,” said Dolores. “Or, rather, as you were thinking, it has achieved harm. Why should you not set some object before you—some purpose to fulfil—as your token of your sorrow?” “I will do it,” said Claverhouse, rising and clenching his hands. “I will fling myself into the writing—the re-writing of the old play. In both of its forms—and in both of its fates, it will have been, as you say, my token of my sorrow for her—for her sufferings—of which I was the cause.” “I am glad,” said Dolores, with her unconscious impressiveness; “more glad than I can say in words.”
