And the darkness was awful; it was a heavy, ghastly blackness, that seemed palpable, so that it frightened her and she looked for relief at the faint light glimmering through the window from a distant street-lamp. She thought the night would never end--the minutes seemed like hours, and she wondered how she should live through till morning. And strange pains that she did not know went through her. Still the night went on, the darkness continued, cold and horrible, and her mother breathed loudly and steadily by her side. At last with the morning sleep came; but the sleep was almost worse than the wakefulness, for it was accompanied by ugly, disturbing dreams. Liza thought she was going through the fight with her enemy, and Mrs. Blakeston grew enormous in size, and multiplied, so that every way she turned the figure confronted her. And she began running away, and she ran and ran till she found herself reckoning up an account she had puzzled over in the morning, and she did it backwards and forwards, upwards and downwards, starting here, starting there, and the figures got mixed up with other things, and she had to begin over again, and everything jumbled up, and her head whirled, till finally, with a start, she woke. The darkness had given way to a cold, grey dawn, her uncovered legs were chilled to the bone, and by her side she heard again the regular, nasal breathing of the drunkard. For a long while she lay where she was, feeling very sick and ill, but better than in the night. At last her mother woke. 'Liza!' she called. 'Yus, mother,' she answered feebly. 'Git us a cup of tea, will yer?' 'I can't, mother, I'm ill.' 'Garn!' said Mrs. Kemp, in surprise. Then looking at her: 'Swop me bob, wot's up with yer? Why, yer cheeks is flushed, an' yer forehead--it is 'ot! Wot's the matter with yer, gal?' 'I dunno,' said Liza. 'I've been thet bad all night, I thought I was goin' ter die.' 'I know wot it is,' said Mrs. Kemp, shaking her head; 'the fact is, you ain't used ter drinkin', an' of course it's upset yer. Now me, why I'm as fresh as a disy. Tike my word, there ain't no good in teetotalism; it finds yer aht in the end, an' it's found you aht.' Mrs. Kemp considered it a judgment of Providence. She got up and mixed some whisky and water. ''Ere, drink this,' she said. 'When one's 'ad a drop too much at night, there's nothin' like havin' a drop more in the mornin' ter put one right. It just acts like magic.' 'Tike it awy,' said Liza, turning from it in disgust; 'the smell of it gives me the sick. I'll never touch spirits again.' 'Ah, thet's wot we all says sometime in our lives, but we does, an' wot's more we can't do withaht it. Why, me, the 'ard life I've 'ad--.' It is unnecessary to repeat Mrs. Kemp's repetitions.