But Miriam steadfastly refused.

“Nonsense, come in just for a second till I——­” and he used some little force to compel her.  She looked round, and without any mental process of which she was conscious determining her to action, instantly slipped from him, and ran with furious haste.  She inquired her way of a policeman, but otherwise she saw nothing, thought nothing, and heard nothing till she was at her own door.  She opened it softly—­it was late; she went into their little parlour, and there lay Andrew on the floor.  He had fallen against the fender, his head was cut open, and he was senseless.  A half empty whisky bottle told the rest of the story.  There was nobody stirring—­her landlord and landlady were strangers; if she called them, and they saw what was the matter, she might have summary notice to quit.  What was she to do?  She took some cold water, washed his face, unfastened his neckcloth, and sat down.  She imagined it was nothing but intoxication, and that in a few hours at most he would recover.  So she remained through the dreadful night hearing every quarter strike, hearing chance noises in the general quietude, a drunken man, a belated cart, and worse than anything, the slow awakening between four and five, the whistle of some early workman who has to light the engine fire or get the factory ready for starting at six—­sounds which remind the sleepless watcher that happiness after rest is abroad.

She hid the whisky bottle and glass; and as her brother showed no signs of recovery, she went to seek advice and help as soon as she heard somebody stirring.  The woman of the house, not a bad kind of woman, although Miriam had feared her so much, came upstairs instantly.  Andrew was lifted on the bed, and a messenger was despatched for the doctor.  Miriam recognised him at once:  he was the doctor who had asked her to stay with Miss Tippit.  He said there was concussion of the brain—­that the patient must be kept quiet, and watched night and day.  To her surprise, her landlady instantly offered to share the duty with her.  A rude, stout, hard person she was, who stood in the shop all day long, winter and summer, amidst the potatoes and firewood, with a woollen shawl round her neck and over her shoulders.  A rude, stout, hard person, we say, was Mrs. Joll, fond of her beer, rather grimy, given to quarrel a little with her husband, could use strong language at times, had the defects which might be supposed to arise from constant traffic with the inhabitants of the Borough, and was utterly unintelligent so far as book learning went.  Nevertheless she was well read in departments more important perhaps than books in the conduct of human life, and in her there was the one thing needful—­the one thing which, if ever there is to be a Judgment Day, will put her on the right hand; when all sorts of scientific people, religious people, students of poetry, people with exquisite emotions, will go on the left and be damned everlastingly.  Miriam was at once sent to bed, and it was arranged that she should take charge during the following night.  Afterwards the night duty was to fall equally between them.  She was so shut up in herself that she did not recognise the full value of Mrs. Joll’s self-sacrifice, but she did manage to express her thanks, and ask how Mrs. Joll could leave the business.