t you here. You know well enough what
a--a--lie, if I must say it, you told me about Mag's havin' a beau at
Larne, and she says she didn't. You're the one that took away your
sister's----" But here he paused.

"Hush up, Andy!" broke in Margaret. "You know I never keered fer you,
or any other man. Don't you and Dora begin to quarrel now."

Andy looked sullen, and Dora scared. At length Dora took speech
timidly.

"Billy will be here in a minute."

"Billy who?" asked Andy.

"Billy Caughey," she answered. "He came over in the same ship with me."

"Oh, I s'pose you've been sparkin' with him ag'in! You pitched him over
to take me----"

"No, I haven't been sparkin' with him, Andy; at least, not lately. He's
my husband. We got married three months ago."

"And didn't tell me?" said Andy, between pleasure and anger.

"No, we wanted to come over here, and we couldn't have come if it
hadn't been for the money you sent."

"Why, Dora, how mean you treated Andy!" broke out Margaret.

"I knew you'd take up for him," said Dora pitifully, "but what could I
do, sure? You won't hurt Billy, now, will you, Andy? He's afeard of
you."

"Well," said Andy, straightening up his fine form with a smile of
relief, "tell Billy that I wish him much j'y, and that I'll be afther
thankin' him with all my heart the very first time I see him for the
kindness he's afther doin' me. Good-night, Mrs. Billy Caughey, good
luck to ye! As Mag says she don't keer fer me, I'll be after going home
alone." This last was said bitterly as he opened the door.

"O Andy! wait fer me--do!" said Margaret.

"Ain't you stayin' to see Billy?" asked Dora.

"Not me. It's with Andy Doyle I'm afther goin'," cried Margaret, with a
lightness she had not known for a year.

And the two went out together.

The next evening Margaret told Sylvia about it, and the little
romance-maker was in ecstasy.

"So you won't enter the sisterhood, then?" she said, when Margaret had
finished.

"No, miss, I don't think I've got any vocation."

THE GUNPOWDER PLOT.

THE STORY OF A FOURTH OF JULY.

Whenever one writes with photographic exactness of frontier life he is
accused of inventing improbable things.

"Old Davy Lindsley" lived in a queer cabin on the Pomme de Terre River.
If you should ever ride over the new Northern Pacific when it shall be
completed, or over that branch of it which crosses the Pomme de Terre,
you can get out at a station which will, no doubt