"The next time, I saw the child in Egypt. It is now two years. We--I mean a small caravan of Nile travellers, who had met by accident,--were riding on our little donkeys through the narrow winding streets of Asqut. By the side of an open door, through which we could look into the silent shady court of a mosque, stood, in a niche in the wall, a child, older than that in Hyde Park, and younger than that here in my arms, but the same brown child, with the bluish-black curls, and the bright gazelle eyes. Again she stretched out her little hands towards the passers-by, and called the cry you hear everywhere in Egypt: Bakshish! howadjee, bakshish! I saw the child, and yet I did not see it; for I was in those desperate fits of humor which occasionally overcome me, when eyes and ears are wide open, and yet neither see nor hear. As we turned round the next corner, I felt precisely the same sensation as in Hyde Park. I left my donkey; I ran back as fast as I could.--The niche was empty. The door leading to the mosque was open, as I said. The yard had on the other side a second door, which was also open, and which led upon one of the main streets, where, at this hour,--it was towards sunset,--men, camels, and donkeys were closely crowded together. The child was gone, and I returned to my companions with a heavy heart; as usual, they had explained my sudden disappearance by assuming a fit of madness.--Do you think it possible that this child, which I first saw amid English mists, and next under the bright sky of Egypt, should cross my path a third time in a German beechwood?"