CHAPTER XVII.
Grace's exhibition of herself, in the act of pulling-to the window-curtains, had been the result of an unfortunate incident in the house that day--nothing less than the illness of Grammer Oliver, a woman who had never till now lain down for such a reason in her life.
Like others to whom unbroken years of health has made the idea of keeping their bed almost as repugnant as death itself, she had continued on foot till she literally fell on the floor; and though she had, as yet, been scarcely a day off duty, she had sickened into quite a different personage from the independent Grammer of the yard and spar-house.

Ill as she was, on one point she was firm.

On no account would she see a doctor; in other words, Fitzpiers.
The room in which Grace had been discerned was not her own, but the old woman's.

On the girl's way to bed she had received a message from Grammer, to the effect that she would much like to speak to her that night.
Grace entered, and set the candle on a low chair beside the bed, so that the profile of Grammer as she lay cast itself in a keen shadow upon the whitened wall, her large head being still further magnified by an enormous turban, which was, really, her petticoat wound in a wreath round her temples.

Grace put the room a little in order, and approaching the sick woman, said, "I am come, Grammer, as you wish.