Cinderella of the Links

Cinderella of the Links
By ZONA GALE
ARNOLD looked hard at the little shoe.
It lay near the ninth hole, and his ball had come to rest close by the patent-leather tip. It was not at all a typical my-lady’s slipper, for although it was small, it was a thick-soled, hob-nailed, low-heeled shoe, as if the missing Cinderella were concerned about other pursuits than a prince’s ball or a pumpkin coach. It was tied with thick braid, guiltless of tins, and it was beautifully polished. Arnold picked it up, turned it over, and dropped it in his pocket.
“It must be Sara Audrey’s,” he decided, and tapped his ball into the ninth hole, smiling. When he had come down to breakfast at the Abbott house-party that morning he had met Sara Audrey and Lawrence Brixton, coming in fresh from an hour on the course. The girl had nodded to Arnold and had run away upstairs, and Lawrence had muttered a greeting brightly, and had also vanished. When Arnold had stepped out on the terrace a moment later to breathe in a blessing before breakfast and the frost had caught his face, he had consigned Miss Audrey’s rapid flitting to a probable blue nose. Now, with the little shoe in his pocket, his mind clutched feebl

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