“Certainly, dear one,” said I. “But pray don’t call me Geo’ge—say Geo–r–ge. There’s an r in it, you know.”
“Yes, Geo–o–o–r–r–r–r–ge!”
“Eve,” I whispered, as we sat on the sofa together, while Mrs Liston was wiping her spectacles, “I’ve been earnestly considering that last attempt of yours, and I think upon the whole, that ‘Geo’ge’ is better.”
Chapter Twenty Seven.
A Peculiar Wedding and a Wonderful Walk.
Turn we once again to the great wilderness, and if we do so with half the zest felt by Big Otter when he set forth on his journey, we will certainly enjoy the trip, you and I, whoever you be.
But we must take the journey at a bound.
It is Christmas-time once more. Lake Wichikagan has put on its top-coat of the purest Carrara marble. The roof of the little fort once again resembles a French cake overloaded with creamy sugar. The pines are black by contrast. The willows are smothered, all save the tops where the snow-flakey ptarmigan find food and shelter. Smoke rises from the various chimneys, showing that the dwellers in that remote outpost are enjoying themselves as of old. The volumes of smoke also suggest Christmas puddings.