She found less difficulty in contemplating the end of a vigorous soul, for in that case she imagined a kind of energetic rush of force back into the origin of things; but in this peaceful old lady there was so little energy; her whole point, so to speak, lay in the delicate little fabric of personality, built out of fragile things into an entity far more significant than the sum of its component parts: the death of a flower, reflected Mabel, is sadder than the death of a lion; the breaking of a piece of china more irreparable than the ruin of a palace.
"It is syncope," said the doctor when he came in.

"She may die at any time; she may live ten years." "There is no need to telegraph for Mr.Brand ?" He made a little deprecating movement with his hands.
"It is not certain that she will die--it is not imminent ?" she asked.
"No, no; she may live ten years, I said." He added a word or two of advice as to the use of the oxygen injector, and went away.
* * * * * The old lady was lying quietly in bed, when the girl went up, and put out a wrinkled hand.
"Well, my dear ?" she asked.
"It is just a little weakness, mother.

You must lie quiet and do nothing.

Shall I read to you ?" "No, my dear; I will think a little." It was no part of Mabel's idea to duty to tell her that she was in danger, for there was no past to set straight, no Judge to be confronted.

Death was an ending, not a beginning.