against him, and presently he found himself, wedged well toward the
middle of the long seat, chugging comfortably up the hill. Still
half-daunted, he gazed about him. It was all of it charming to be sure,
fascinating even; yet, could this festive summering place be the Avalon
of his dreams? Was this the quaint village of Spanish times, reaching
back still further through dimly remembered Indian lore to a world lost
now except to legend? Yet it was for the sake of a mere legend, a
fanciful tale handed down in his family through many a generation, that
he had made the long journey from New York to California, nor - and here
he set his lips with dogged determination, did he intend to return until
he had found that for which he searched.

It was now something over two years since Harrison Blair, then fresh
from Yale, had astonished both those who wished him well and those who,
for various envious reasons, did not, with the wholly unreasonable
success of his first book. For, to those who did not understand, his
sudden fame had seemed all the more surprising in that it rested upon
nothing more substantial than a slender volume of Indian verse. So
unusual, however, had been his treatment of this well-worn subject as to
call forth more than a little comment from even the most conservative of
critics. The Brush and Pen had hastened to confer upon him an honorary
membership. Cadmon, magic weaver of Indian music, had written a warm
letter of appreciation. And, most precious tribute of all, the Atlantic
Monthly had become interested in his career.

To be sure, it was nothing more than might have been expected of a man
whose undergraduate work in English had aroused the reluctant wonder of
more than one instructor. Nevertheless, the fact that he pulled stroke
on the 'varsity crew had somewhat blinded other contemporaries to his
more scholarly attainments. Nor had anyone thought it probable, because