But ambition more than love, earthly hopes rather than heavenly, kept Mr. Ludolph an anxious watcher at Christine's side that night. A smile of satisfaction illumined his somewhat haggard face as he saw the fever pass away and the dew of natural moisture come out on Christine's brow, but there was no thankful glance upward. Immunity from loathsome disease was due only to chance and the physician's skill, by his creed.
The sun was shining brightly when Christine awoke and by a faint call startled her father from a doze in the great armchair.
"How do you feel, my dear?" he asked.
She languidly rubbed her heavy eyes, and said she thought she was better—she felt no pain. The opiate had not yet lost its effect. But soon she greatly revived, and when the doctor came he found her decidedly better, and concluded that she was merely suffering from a severe cold, and would soon regain her usual health.
Father and daughter were greatly relieved, and their spirits rose.
"I really feel as if I ought to thank somebody," said Christine. "I am not going to thank the doctor, for I know what a bill is coming, so I will thank you. It was very kind of you to sit up the long night with me."
Even Mr. Ludolph had to remember that he had in his anxiety thought as much of himself as of her.
"Another lease of life," said Christine, dreamily looking into the future; "and, as I said last night, I mean to make the most of it."
"I can best guide you in doing that," said her father, looking into his daughter's face with keen scrutiny.
"I believe you, and intend to give you the chance. When can we leave this detested land, this city of shops and speculators? To think that I, Christine Ludolph, am sick, idle, and perhaps have endangered all by reason of foolish exposure in a brewer's tawdry, money-splashed house! Come, father when is the next scene in the brief drama to open? I am impatient to go home to our beloved Germany and enter on real life."