“Honora!” said Miss Pellicoe, rising, “never utter that name in my presence again.” “An’ fwat shall I call the dog?” “Call _it_”—and Miss Pellicoe made a pause of impressive severity, “call _it_—Andromache.” [Illustration] A SISTERLY SCHEME. [Illustration: “_The young man looked up and saw a saucy face laughing at him._”] A SISTERLY SCHEME. Away up in the very heart of Maine there is a mighty lake among the mountains. It is reached after a journey of many hours from the place where you “go in.” That is the phrase of the country, and when you have once “gone in,” you know why it is not correct to say that you have gone _through_ the woods, or, simply, _to_ your destination. You find that you have plunged into a new world—a world that has nothing in common with the world that you live in; a world of wild, solemn, desolate grandeur, a world of space and silence; a world that oppresses your soul—and charms you irresistibly. And after you have once “come out” of that world, there will be times, to the day of your death, when you will be homesick for it, and will long with a childlike longing to go back to it. Up in this wild region you will find a fashionable Summer–hotel, with electric bells and seven–course dinners, and “guests” who dress three times a day. It is perched on a little flat point, shut off from the rest of the mainland by a huge rocky cliff. It is an impertinence in that majestic wilderness, and Leather–Stocking would doubtless have had a hankering to burn such an affront to Nature; but it is a good hotel, and people go to it and breathe the generous air of the great woods. [Illustration] On the beach near this hotel, where the canoes were drawn up in line, there stood one Summer morning a curly–haired, fair young man—not so very young, either—whose cheeks were uncomfortably red as he looked first at his own canoe, high and dry, loaded with rods and landing–net and luncheon–basket, and then at another canoe, fast disappearing down the lake, wherein sat a young man and a young woman. “Dropped again, Mr. Morpeth?” The young man looked up and saw a saucy face laughing at him. A girl was sitting on the string–piece of the dock. It was the face of a girl between childhood and womanhood. By the face and the figure, it was a woman grown. By the dress, you would have judged it a girl. And you would have been confirmed in the latter opinion by the fact that the young person was doing something unpardonable for a young lady, but not inexcusable in the case of a youthful tomboy. She had taken off her canvas shoe, and was shaking some small stones out of it. There was a tiny hole in her black stocking, and a glimpse of her pink toe was visible. The girl was sunburnt, but the toe was prettily pink. “Your sister,” replied the young man with dignity, “was to have gone fishing with me; but she remembered at the last moment that she had a prior engagement with Mr. Brown.”