She blew on her
fingers. The fire was down to the last ember; so she went into the
cluttered courtyard and broke into pieces one of the limbs she had
carried up from the valley earlier in the season. The fire renewed its
cheerful crackle, the kettle boiled briskly, and the frugal breakfast
was under way.
There was daily one cup of coffee, but neither Gretchen nor her
grandmother claimed this luxury; it was for the sick woman on the third
floor. Sometimes at the Black Eagle she had a cup when her work was
done, but to Gretchen the aroma excelled the taste. Her grandmother's
breakfast and her own out of the way, she carried the coffee and bread
and a hot brick up to the invalid. The woman gave her two crowns a week
to serve this morning meal. Gretchen would have cheerfully done the work
for nothing.
What the character of the woman's illness was Gretchen hadn't an idea,
but there could be no doubt that she was ill, desperately, had the
goose-girl but known it. Her face was thin and the bones were visible
under the drum-like skin; her hands were merely claws. But she would
have no doctor; she would have no care save that which Gretchen gave
her. Sometimes she remained in bed all the day. She had been out of the
house but once since she came.
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