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A Fifeshire tea-party.
'The knights they harpit in their bow'r, The ladyes sew'd and sang; The mirth that was in that chamber Through all the place it rang.' Rose the Red and White Lily.
Tea at Rowardennan Castle is an impressive and a delightful function.
It is served by a ministerial-looking butler and a just-ready-to-be-ordained footman.

They both look as if they had been nourished on the Thirty-Nine Articles, but they know their business as well as if they had been trained in heathen lands,--which is saying a good deal, for everybody knows that heathen servants wait upon one with idolatrous solicitude.

However, from the quality of the cheering beverage itself down to the thickness of the cream, the thinness of the china, the crispness of the toast, and the plummyness of the cake, tea at Rowardennan Castle is perfect in every detail.
The scones are of unusual lightness, also.

I should think they would scarcely weigh more than four, perhaps even five, to a pound; but I am aware that the casual traveller, who eats only at hotels, and never has the privilege of entering feudal castles, will be slow to believe this estimate, particularly just after breakfast.
Salemina always describes a Scotch scone as an aspiring but unsuccessful soda-biscuit of the New England sort.