Falkenberg’s visits were, of course, daily. Wilhelmi called many times. His wife and daughter went once into the sick-room, and came out again; Frau Wilhelmi with all her mother’s heart showing in the pity of her eyes, Luise crying aloud, and vowing that she would never forget it till her dying day. The sight of her proud and beautiful friend tossing senselessly to and fro–of the great grey eyes gazing with meaningless fixity at her–of the vacant stare and smile upon the face that had once beamed with intellect, had shaken her careless girl’s heart, and given her a glimpse into depths she had never dreamed of before. ‘_Ach_, mamma!’ she murmured, as they went sorrowfully away: ‘I don’t think Falkenberg will ever have his wish–_der Arme_!’ ‘Who knows?’ answered Frau Wilhelmi. ‘I am glad her mother cannot see her.’ It was a desperate battle, if not a very long one. For more than a week life and reason in the one balance, death or madness in the other, oscillated with a terrible uncertainty. But Sara Ford was not doomed to lose either life or reason in the struggle. ‘Strong light,’ says Goethe, ‘throws strong shadow.’ And a strong, intense nature makes a strong, obstinate struggle against all kinds of adversities which ‘the subtlety of the devil or man’ may bring about. There came an evening when the doctors, going away, pronounced her _safe_–sane, living, if with no more strength than a two-weeks’ child may possess. It was after they had departed, and while the nurse kept watch over her patient, that Ellen, after literally feasting her eyes upon her ‘child’s’ face, shrunk to a shadow of its former beauty, went into the parlour for a few minutes, to take a moment’s rest, and to indulge in the luxury of some thankful tears. It was quite late, yet she was scarcely surprised to suddenly see Herr Falkenberg, who strode into the room, and, standing before her, asked breathlessly: ‘Is it true, what I heard outside–that she is _safe_?’ ‘It is quite true, sir, I thank God!’ ‘Oh!’ he said, biting his lips, and drawing in his breath with a long inspiration. The next moment he had cast himself upon a chair beside the table, and, with his face buried in his hands, was sobbing aloud. Awe-struck, Ellen stood by for a few moments, till he looked up and demanded to hear every particular of this recovery, this conquest, this triumph over death, which, though they had always professed themselves so sure of it, came upon him at last with a sense of joy and relief that was almost overwhelming. ‘I must see her as soon as she can see or speak to anyone,’ he said. ‘You said you were my friend, Ellen, and you must manage this for me. If she gets well and strong, she will try to break off her compact, out of mistaken consideration for me–you understand?’