"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, be called for an old settler, Gager's Station; and if you would like to see some beautiful scenery, take a canoe and float down the Pomme de Terre River. You will have to make some portages, and you will have a good appetite for supper when you reach the old Lindsley house, ten miles from Gager's, but its present owner is hospitable.