Poor Miss Annie was constantly being told to be a good girl and go away, in the days that followed--days, to Miss Harriet, of that amazement and self-concentration which belong to such an experience as hers. There had been no leading up to this knowledge that had come to her--no gradual preparation of apprehension or suspicion. The full speed of living had come, _crash!_ against the fact of dying. The recoil, the pause, the terrible astonishment of that moment when Life, surging ahead with all his banners flying, flings himself in an instant against the immovable face of Death--leaves the soul dazed by the shock--dazed, and unbelieving. "_It cannot be._" That is the first clear thought. It is impossible; there is a mistake somewhere. A day ago, an hour ago, Death was lying hidden far, far off in the years. Sometime, of course, he would arrive--solemn, inevitable, but beneficent, or at least serene. He would send soft warnings before him--faint tollings of fatigue, vague mists of sunset shadows. The soul will be ready for him when he comes then; will even welcome him, for after a while Life grows a little tired and is ready to grasp that cool hand and rest. We all know how to meet Death then, with dignity and patience. But to meet him to-morrow--to-day, even, when we are full of our own business, of our own urgent affairs--the mere interruption of it is maddening. Across the solemnity of the thought comes with grotesque incongruity an irritated consciousness of the _inconvenience_ of dying. As for Harriet Hutchinson--"I don't believe it," she said to herself, that first morning. And then, breathlessly, "Why, I can't--die!" She was not afraid, as one counts fear, but she was absorbed; for there is a dreadful and curiously impersonal interest in the situation that takes possession of the mind in moments like this. No wonder she could not think about Annie. She could not think about anything except that that man in Mercer had said that in a very short time-- "Why, but it's perfectly ridiculous!" she told herself; "it _can't_ be. I'm not sick--" As she lay there in her bed that morning, after she had sent Miss Annie away, she lifted her hand--a large hand, with strong, square fingers, brown with weather and rough with her work, and looked at it curiously. It was a little thin--she had not noticed that before; but there it was, eager, vital, quick to grip and hold, life in every line. And it would be--still? No; she did not believe it. And, besides, it couldn't be, it mustn't be. She had a hundred things to do. She must do them; she couldn't suddenly--_stop_. Life surged up in a great wave of passionate determination. She got up, eager to go on living, and to deny, deny, deny! It was the old human experience which is repeated and repeated until Life can learn the fulfilment of Death. Poor Life, beaten by the whips of pain, it takes so long sometimes to learn its lesson!