“Ah!” he exclaimed feebly, “it was not a dream! How long have I been ill?”
“More than a fortnight,” said the girl promptly.
“Oh, my poor mother!” ejaculated Fritz with a sob, “she will have thought me dead, and broken her heart!”
“Don’t fear that,” said she kindly. “I wrote to her, telling her you were badly hurt, but that you were in good hands.”
“You! Why, how did you know her name, or where she lived?”
“I found the address in your pocket,” answered the girl with a laugh. “Don’t you recollect putting a slip of paper there, telling any one, in case you were wounded or killed, to write and break the news gently to your mother, ‘madame Dort, Gulden Strasse, Lubeck’? I never heard before of such a thoughtful son!”
“Ah, I remember now,” said Fritz; “and you wrote, then, to her?”
“Yes, last week, when we despaired of your recovery; but, I have written again since, telling her that the bullet has been removed from your wound, and that if you get over the fever you will recover all right.”
“Thank you, and thank God!” exclaimed Fritz fervently, and he shut his eyes and remained quiet for a minute or two, although his lips moved as if in prayer.
“And where is Gelert, my dog?” he asked presently.