“And thou art wise to do so, my beloved one,” he said at last.  “He will make to thee a good husband.”  In his voice was the keen understanding of a father.  “He will be kind to thee and heal thy wounded heart, my daughter.  Don Cabrillo is a good man,” he repeated solemnly.”

Miss Hastings Brings It to an End

Part II

Miss Hastings Brings It to an End

Centuries passed, and again, with the same sweet suddenness as in the days gone by, spring came to Catalina.  Guests of the St. Catherine, lounging on its wide verandahs, gazed across a sunlit sea to where the faint cloud that was San Jacinto hovered, the merest ghost of a mountain, above the misty mainland.  Along the broad board-walk leading down to Avalon benches, shaded by brightstriped awnings, flaunted an invitation to every passing tourist.  Strings of Japanese lanterns bobbed merrily above the narrow village streets.  Everywhere were laughter and movement and color from the bathing beaches, dotted with gay umbrellas — even to the last yacht anchored round the point.

To the man making slow progress down the crowded wharf from the afternoon boat this holiday world into which he thus suddenly stepped, presented an appearance so different from that he had pictured as almost to bewilder him.  At sight of the jaunty little motorbus waiting to haul him up the winding grade to the hotel, he actually hesitated.  Yet seldom before, to his knowledge, had he found it difficult to adapt himself to an unexpected situation.

“Hotel St. Catherine!  Bus to the hotel, sir?”

Other guests, more certain of their intentions, pushed impatiently 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.