“I admit it seems so, and yet perhaps if we knew what Samson Cereal knows, deep down in his heart, we might find it easier to believe. It is a matter of speculation with me, but if you stop and think for a moment you can understand how difficult it would be for happiness to follow such a marriage--he, a progressive American with all the ideas we claim, she born and reared under the blighting influence of Eastern customs. I can readily imagine a quarrel arising and she fleeing back to the sunny land of her birth.” “What! leaving her child behind?” “Quite likely. This is theory. When I learn some facts we can see how near I was to being right.” “Well, continue the theory: why does she come to the land of ice again--the country from which she fled years and years ago?” Aleck shrugs his shoulders. “Ask me something easy. Put the question to one of the Sandwich Islanders or a Hottentot. Perhaps she has been drawn by the mother love to see her child again, for that affection is not confined to any class. The lioness will fight for her whelps. Putting speculation aside, Claude, I am ready to swear that the face of this veiled prophetess was very like that of Dorothy. I was struck dumb by the resemblance. At first I had a positive notion it was she. Then I gradually realized that such a thing was too improbable, and while we walked along my mind evolved the theory which I have given you.” “Would that have any bearing on the presence of Dorothy here?” asks Wycherley, stopping to light his pipe at the gas jet of a tobacconist, and nodding familiarly to the Greek in charge. “It might. She told me her mission was a sacred one, and what could be more in keeping with such a word than the search of a child for her mother? However, we may be meddling with what does not concern us, though fortune has apparently decreed that I should be interested in the fortunes of Dorothy Cereal, judging from our several peculiar meetings. Have you any other plans for to-night, comrade?” “I never leave here until closing time. Can’t explain it, but there’s a charm about this same old Midway that is life to me. You know my nature, Craig, and it just chimes with such a kaleidoscopic scene as this, color, music, and laughter--not a tear or a frown. Heigho! when the curtain rings down and the bugle sounds 'lights out,’ I shall have to seek consolation in making love to that black-eyed Spanish cigar girl, or emigrate with all these Turks, Arabs, and Moors.” CHAPTER VIII. A BACHELOR PROTECTORATE. Craig has himself seen enough of the daily life along the Midway to feel some sympathy for his companion, whose doleful refrain has at least the merit of sincerity.