She is no prim New England maiden, this only child of the Chicago grain manipulator. The warm blood of an Oriental mother flows in her veins, though she knows it not. Besides, on the father’s side she inherits some of his daring. When she no longer doubts the identity of the man who has come to their rescue, Dorothy turns away from the window--though they are at this time reaching the point over which all voyagers on the wheel have raved--and approaches the Canadian, who smiles a little as he looks up into the fearless dusky orbs. “I beg your pardon, sir, but unless I am seriously mistaken I believe I have met you before, and under circumstances that left me your debtor. Am I right?” she asks. “You refer to our meeting last winter. I have remembered with pleasure that a broken strap allowed me to be of some assistance to you, though deploring the fact that you received an injury in your fall. Perhaps you will recollect that you gave me your card. I called at all the hotels on the following day but could not find you.” “Ah! we were stopping with friends,” she smiles. “I haunted the pleasure ground, and was at every affair for days after, hoping to learn that you had not been seriously injured.” “A telegram called us home the next day. Father was ill. But--you had the card--my address is upon it. If you had been _very_ solicitous about my health----” “Ah!” he breaks in, “pardon me again. That is where the curious part of it comes in. Look, I have it still. After I left you I continued skating. Something happened down the river--perhaps you may have read about it, but they gave me much more credit than I deserved. At any rate, I was in the water, and, with the assistance of men who brought boards, managed to save a young lady. The ice was new at the spot, and hardly fit for use, though she had no warning. I only mention this to explain another circumstance. Later on I remembered your card; when I took it out of my pocket it had been soaked, and only half remained legible. Thus I could only discover that your first name was Dorothy, and that Chicago claimed you for a resident.” “How strange,” she murmurs. “I confess that when I came to the great Fair, I wondered if by some odd chance I might see you here, though it would be a remarkable thing indeed. While I think of the oddity of our meeting here, I am struck dumb with amazement,” he says seriously. “It seems like fate to me,” is what her heart whispers, and the very thought causes the blood to mount over neck and face until Aleck’s eyes are ravished with the fairest picture they ever beheld. Love comes at no man’s bidding--it cannot be bought with the riches of an Eastern potentate--spontaneously it springs from the heart as the lightning leaps from cloud to cloud. So Aleck Craig, bachelor, realizes, as he looks into the lovely face of Marda’s daughter, that surely he has met his fate, for such a strange meeting could not occur unless the cords of their destiny were bound together.