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“I’ve a mind to tell you all about it,” said the girl, in answer to the inquiries of Sylvia, at the same time pushing her hair back off her face and leaning her head on her hands while she rested her elbows on the table.

“Maybe it will do you good to tell me,” answered Sylvia, concealing her eager curiosity behind her desire to serve Margaret.

“Well, you see, miss, my sister Dora is purty.”

“So are you, Maggie.”

“No, but Dora is a young thing, and kind of helpless, like a baby. I was the oldest, and that Dora was my baby, like. Well, Andy Doyle and me were always friends. I wish I hadn’t never seen him. But he seemed to be the nicest fellow in the world. There was never anything said between him an’ me, only–well–but I can’t tell ye–you’re so young–you don’t know about such things.”

“Yes, I do. You loved him, didn’t you?”

“You see, miss, he was always so good. Dora, she hadn’t no end of b’ys that liked her. But anything that I had she always wanted, you may say, and I always ‘umored her in a way. She was young and a kind of a baby, an’ she is that purty, Miss Sylvy. Well, one of us had to go out to work in the mill, an’ my mother, she said that Dora must go, because Dora wasn’t any good about the house to speak of. She never knew how to do anything right. But Dora cried, and said she couldn’t work in the mill, and so I went down to Larne to work in the mill, and Dora promised to look after the house. Now, at the time I went away Dora was all took up with Billy Caughey, and we thought sure as could be it was a match. But what does that girl do but desave Billy, and catch Andy. I don’t think, miss, that he ever half loved her, but then I don’t know what she made him believe; and then, ye know, nobody ever could refuse Dora anything, with her little beggin’, winnin’ ways. She just dazed him and got him engaged to her; and I don’t believe he was ever entirely happy with her. But what could I do, miss? I couldn’t try to coax him back–now could I? She was such a baby of a thing that she would cry if Andy only talked to me a minute after I come home. And I didn’t want to take him away from her. That was when the mill at Larne had shut up. And so I hadn’t no heart to do anything more there; it seemed like I was dead; and I knowed that if I stayed there would be trouble, for I could see that Andy looked at me strange, like there was somethin’ he didn’t quite understand, ye may say; but I was mad, and I didn’t want to take away Dora’s beau, nor to have anything to do with a lad that could change his mind so easy. And so I come away, thinkin’ maybe I’d get some heart again on this side of the sea, and that I could soon send for me old mother to come.”

Here she leaned her head on the table and cried.

“Now, there,” she said after a while, “to-day I got a letter from Dora; there it is!” and she pushed it to the middle of the table as though it stung her. “She says that Andy is comin’ over here to make money enough to bring her over after a while, sure. It kind o’ makes my heart jump up, miss, to think of seein’ anybody from Drogheda, and more’n all to see Andy again, that always played with me, and—- But I despise him too, miss, fer bein’ so changeable. But then, Dora she makes fools out of all of them with her purty face and her coaxin’ ways, miss. She can’t help it, maybe.”