Dorothy says no more just at present. The wheel is rolling around, the pinnacle passed, and they are descending. Soon they must part. The professor has made several attempts at rising, but Craig shakes him down as easily as he might a schoolboy. The Padarewski of the Ferris wheel is in the hands of a master-voice and the flail-like arms have long since ceased to cause the wildest music ever heard in one of these cars--and truth to tell strange things have happened under their shelter, from a wedding in mid air to the “siss-boom-ah!” of a score of ascending college students, who deemed themselves slighted by the superior attractions of the Midway, and were determined to win notice. As they near the bottom, Dorothy overcomes her reserve once more. “You will think it strange that I should come to this place at night, and with only a middle-aged lady for a companion, but I have a reason for it, Mr. Craig. You know who I am now--the daughter of Samson Cereal. We live on the North side. Some time perhaps you may call, and I might feel it my duty to explain. God knows it is no idle whim that brings me here, but a sacred purpose.” Her voice is low, her manner earnest, almost eloquent. The Canadian is deeply moved--when does a beautiful woman with her soul in her eyes fail to arouse enthusiasm? “I can well believe that, Miss Dorothy, from the few facts I have learned,” he says, and although her eyebrows are arched in surprise, she makes no remark. The wheel has ceased to revolve. Craig arises, and allows the professor to regain his feet. “Are we down?” ejaculates that pious fraud in anxious tones, and upon his wife reassuring him that all is well, he says solemnly, “Thank Heaven for that, and all mercies.” Dorothy manages to brush close to the Canadian, and takes occasion to say: “To-morrow night we receive. Will you come?” He looks straight in her eyes as he replies: “If I am in the flesh, I will.” Then as she extends her hand, after they have left the wheel, he takes it reverently in his. “Good night, Mr. Craig.” He watched the two veiled ladies vanish in the midst of the throng that gathers at this point, where Persian and Turkish theaters, with their noisy mouthpieces in front, vie with the Chinese and Algerian shows further on. The murmur of her soft voice, the look of her lovely eyes, remain with him like a dream, and to himself this stout-hearted Canadian is saying: “Hard hit at last, my boy. No more will the old joys allure you. In the past, peace, contentment, and all the humors of a jolly bachelorhood. To come, the fierce longing, the uneasy rest, the yearning after what may prove to be the unattainable. Hang it! I’ve laughed at others, and now they have revenge. Well, would you change it all--cross out the experience of to-night?”