"Cook makes the most abominable pastry and cannot roast at all; our poor little joints of meat are shrivelled up and hard, so she has really no need to give herself such airs. With regard to the roasting I really am most perplexed, and hope you will be able to advise me. I have by me a standard cookery book, which assures me most positively that a joint should be put in a hot oven to make a casing to keep in the juices, and then it is to be cooked more slowly. This, I know, has been done, but the result is far from satisfactory, and I wonder if the oven is too hot. "Only last night a beautiful little piece of loin of mutton was served nearly black and as hard as a brick. I was so distressed for poor Arthur's sake. It does so worry me to think of his coming home hungry from his office to such a dinner. He was most amiable over it and only smiled, telling me not to worry, I would soon learn. But the question is, how long will he keep on smiling if he often has bad dinners? One must look these matters in the face, must one not? "I do not want to vex him too often; in fact, I do not want to vex him at all, but what can I do? And then his mother is coming to stay in a week or two, and although she is kindness herself, and very fond of me, I feel quite sure that she will feel a profound pity for her unfortunate son if she sees a black joint on the table. "Her pastry--I mean cook's, of course--is so bad, that a week ago I plucked up my courage. Venturing into the kitchen, I tried my hand at making some. I rubbed seven ounces of dripping into a pound of flour that had first been mixed with a teaspoonful of baking powder--that was right, was it not? Then I mixed it with water to a dough and rolled it out. It kept sticking to the board, and I got very nervous, for I felt the cold, unsympathetic glance of the cook was upon me. But I persevered and made it up into a pie and baked it; but every time I went to the oven to take a peep--about every three minutes--the dripping was running out as fast as it could. Surely pastry is very wasteful. What is the use of putting it in if it only runs out again? And to eat, it was hard beyond words! And to see cook's scornful smile when, on the following day, she asked politely if I wished the remains sent up to table. "Now, as I tell you, she is leaving shortly. I have heard of a girl who might do. She makes good soups, cooks vegetables well, roasts and boils fairly well, and she is very clean. I know she is a nice girl, and not at all inclined to be refractory, if I could only make up my mind as to the best way of starting. As I tell you, my mother-in-law is coming to stay soon. Marion, do advise me. "Your perplexed friend, "MADGE HOLDEN." Marion read all this very carefully and thought it over. Then she answered Mrs. Holden's letter.