“In haste, “Yours ever, “MADGE HOLDEN.” Marion laughed heartily over this letter, and read it out to the other two. “What does she mean?” asked Ada in a perplexed tone. “How can the scones be freckled?” “I have a vague recollection of something of the sort happening to some of mine once,” said Jane; “but I have known so many accidents and failures that I can’t possibly recollect them all. Oh, I know! How stupid of me! Of course, the carbonate of soda and cream of tartar were not properly mixed into the flour, and so wherever there was soda a brown patch was the result, as it always makes things darker when used alone.” “Bravo, Jennie!” said Marion. “I shall tell Mrs. Holden that you will write yourself and reveal the mystery of the scones. I am sorry you and Ada will not see her and her brother as you are going to the concert.” “Have you ever seen her brother Tom?” asked Ada. “No, I don’t remember having done so. But I heard of a schoolboy escapade of his years ago. His mother was entertaining visitors on a dark winter afternoon just at dusk; they had rung for the gas to be lighted, but the servant was a long time in coming. In the meantime they were considerably startled by a light that kept flashing in at the window and then disappearing. When everybody was well startled the cause was discovered. Master Tom and some boon companions were at the schoolroom window above amusing themselves by drawing a dark lantern up and down. Hence the phenomenon.” “How like a boy!” said Jane sedately. On Saturday afternoon Mrs. Holden appeared, resplendent in a bonnet made of primroses, and with her a tall, sunburnt young fellow, whom she introduced as her brother, Tom Scott. “But you must not stay, you know, Tom,” said the lively lady. “You really must go and see about those houses, and we shall only bore you with our domestic talk.” Mr. Scott smiled languidly. He was ensconced in Jane’s own particular rocking-chair and showed no disposition to move, but looked appreciatively round the sunny little sitting-room and at his bright-eyed little hostess, who sat by the work-table at the window with a bunch of sweet-smelling spring flowers in a vase beside her. “I find this climate so trying after India,” he remarked. “Nonsense, Tom! Marion, he is too lazy for anything! How far is it to Thornicroft Gardens?” Marion said that it was only two streets away. “We must have tennis,” said Mrs. Holden; “so, if the houses are nice, one of those might do, as I understand the gardens at the back have several courts. I am thankful Tom is an engineer: so if there is anything radically wrong with the house he will detect it, so I have not that responsibility! Now, Tom, do start off; and, if you are good, Marion will give you some tea when you get back! Be quick!” So off he went, and for the next half-hour Mrs. Holden poured her domestic experiences into the ear of the sympathetic Marion.