the shadows of the old stone bridge. The reflection
was framed with delicate interfacings of water cress, while in the bed
of the stream the smooth pebbles gleamed like pearls. The pointed reeds
nodded and waved in the gentle breeze.

Now that I think of it, I have cursed those reeds many, many times while
hunting for a lost ball.

"Is it not beautiful?" I exclaimed to Miss Harding.

"That drive of Mr. Boyd's?" she asked in reply. Boyd had made a ripper,
which went sailing over our heads. "It was a lovely drive! He has beaten
you by several yards."

"I meant the brook," I said.

"The brook?" she exclaimed. "I am surprised, Mr. Smith! I had no idea
that a confirmed golfer could find beauty in anything outside of a
drive, brassie, approach or putt."

"You malign us, Miss Harding," I declared, looking first in her eyes and
then in her mirrored image in the water. "From where I stand that brook
is the most lovely thing in the world, except--except----"

"Mr. LaHume has put his ball square on the green on his second shot!"
interrupted Miss Harding, clapping her hands in excitement.

I do not know whether she knew what I was going to say or not. I wish I
had the nerve to finish some of the fine speeches and compliments I plan
and begin, but as a rule I end them without a climax.

We found the ball and I dropped it a few yards back of the brook. She
promptly drove it into the brook a second time, and what became of it
will always remain a mystery to me. It did not go more than fifteen
feet, and we looked and looked but could not find it, so I smiled and
dropped another one, and this time she made a really good shot.

Counting all of the strokes and penalties it took Miss Harding fifteen
to make that hole, the bogy for which is four, but I assured her that I
have known men to do worse, and I believe the statement a fact, though I
cannot recall at this moment who did it in such woeful figures.

Miss Harding insisted in trying to drive over the pond on the fourth
hole, and said she would gladly pay for all the balls that went into it,
but of course I would not listen to that. The pond is very shallow at
this season of the year, and in fact is a mud hole in most places, and
it is therefore impossible to recover a ball which fails to carry less
than eighty yards.

She barely touched the ball on her first attempt, and I got it after
wading in the mud to my shoe tops. Then she hit it nicely, but it failed
to carry the