"As you know," began Chilvers, "Smith was born on this farm. It's the
ancestral Smith homestead, and Smith's relatives were very indignant
when he leased it to the Woodvale Golf and Country Club. What was the
name of that maiden aunt of yours, Smith?"

"My Aunt Sarah Emeline Smith," I replied.

"Yes, yes! Well, Aunt Sarah Emeline was especially incensed over this
act of sacrilege on Smith's part," continued this historian, and he
followed the facts closely, "and only once since has she stepped foot on
the broad acres where her happy girlhood was spent. It was my
good-fortune to meet her on that occasion, and I shall never forget it."

"Neither shall I," I said.

"On her visit here Aunt Sarah Emeline persisted in wandering over the
links. She had on a wonderful bonnet, and through it she glared
disdainfully at the members of the club who yelled 'Fore!' at her. She
was headed for the old mill, which now is used as a caddy house. I was
playing the last hole and thought she was well out of line of a brassey,
so I fell on that ball for all I was worth. I sliced it; yes, I sliced
it badly."

[Illustration: "... and threw it in the pond"]

Chilvers paused and seemed lost in thought.

"Did it hit her?" asked Boyd.

"Of course it hit her," resumed Chilvers. "Aunt Sarah Emeline is more