One crisp morning, seated in a diminutive wicker cart behind a discontented pony, they searched out Chicken John’s cabin on the mesa behind the golf links.

“Not that it has anything to do with Indians,” she apologized, “only I want you to see him.  He’s such a character, so nice and untidy and queer!”

As a result of this expedition they brought away with them what old John designated a “plump little fry” to be served at the cosy table for two in the sunniest window of the dining room, a luxury which Blair had likewise confiscated in the interests of business.

And so for seven glorious days they tramped the fragrant hills, or sailed a sea as softly blue as though fallen fresh that morning from the cloudless heaven above.  In the warmth and glow of his friendship the starved heart of the little art teacher opened like some hot-house flower carried suddenly into the wide outdoors.  And when at last the week drew to an end, their work, both his and hers, was still unfinished, so that there was nothing else to do but to live on through another fully as wonderful.

Blair himself took things much more for granted, and even when their talk strayed farthest afield it was plain to the girl that his mind never fully lost sight of the purpose for which he had come.  His work stood always first, while, — she blushed to own it even to herself, — she had sometimes entirely forgotten her own.

At the end of the third week they had seen almost everything he considered essential and at times she sensed in his manner, even when he was least aware of it, a kind of repressed impatience.  She knew what it meant and shivered.  Presently he would leave her, and life would become again the same dull round of work.  Only one spot of real importance remained unvisited, — the cavern bower above the Bay of Moons.  Of this he had spoken frequently, and well she knew he held it the climax of his search.

But for reasons best known to herself Miss Hastings put off from day to day this final expedition until Blair began to chaff at the delay.

“That’s really the one place I came to see!” he told her more than once.  “After I’ve been there I think I can go.”

“But we’ve planned Middle Ranch for today,” she would answer evasively, or, “This is the best time to see Orazaba; it’s so clear this morning.  That’s the mountain, you know, where the Indians carved out their ollas.  Some of them are still there, only half cut away.  It would be too bad for you to miss that.”

At length, however, there came a day when excuses would do no longer.

“We’ve waited long enough,” he declared that morning over their coffee, “Besides, I may have to go now in a few days.”

And although at his words the sunshine of her new world faded suddenly away, yet the little teacher kept a brave front.  She even laughed carelessly.

“Men are so impatient,” she teased, “But we’ll go today.”