pond by a few yards, and disappeared in the ooze.

"I thought I could do it, but I give it up," she said, and I could see
that she was disappointed.

"Try it again," I insisted, teeing up a new one. "Keep your eye on the
ball when your club comes down, and don't press."

She made a brave effort, but hit the ball a trifle on top. It struck the
water, ricochetted and eventually poised itself on a mud bank. I recall
how white it looked against the black slime with lily pads in the
background, but I saw at a glance that it would remain there, so far as
we were concerned.

[Illustration: "We rested on top of the hill"]

Against her protest I teed another ball, but she went under it and it
met the fate of its predecessors. It took all my eloquence to induce her
to make the five attempts which followed, and then I made the discovery
that I had brought only eight new balls with me. So I excused myself and
went back to the club house and bought a box of a dozen, but nothing
would change her determination not to try it again.

I am firmly convinced that with a little luck she could have done it,
but it was the first time Miss Harding had played this course, and that
makes lots of difference.

Of the various incidents in this most delightful game nothing gave me
more keen enjoyment than when Miss Harding played Carter's ball. It was
by mistake, of course. Nature has implanted in woman an instinct which
leads her to play any ball rather than her own. The ball thus selected
is generally without a blemish, and it has been ordained that a weak
little creature can with one stroke cut that sphere in halves.

That is what happened to Carter's ball when Miss Harding played it by
mistake, and I never laughed more heartily. Carter smiled and bowed and
pretended to be amused, but I knew he was not.

We rested on top of the hill after this exploit and talked of the rare
view and of other topics which had nothing whatever to do with golf.
Never before have I rested during a game, and I did not think it
possible. I have been on that hill innumerable times, but it never
occurred to me to take more than a passing glance at the inspiring
vista which spreads away to the north and west.

We talked of poetry and of art. Think of sitting with a golf club in
your hand, resting a few rods from a tee where a clean shot will carry
the railway tracks a hundred feet below and land your ball on a green
two hundred and eighty yards from the tee--it