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But whether it was from her lonely feeling at the death of her mother, or from her exultation at her victory over her feelings, or whether it was that her heart, trodden down by her conscience, sought revenge, she showed more affection for Andy this evening than ever before, following him to the area gate, detaining him in conversation, and bidding him goodnight with real emotion.

The next evening Andy came again with a long face. He had a paper in which he showed Maggie an account of the suspension of the Shamrock Savings Bank, in which the money of so many Irishmen was locked up, and in which were all of Andy Doyle’s savings, except ten dollars he had in his pocket.

“Now, Mag, what am I goin’ to do? It takes thirty-five dollars for a ticket. If I put my week’s wages that I’ll git to-morry on to this, I’m short half of it.”

“Sure, Andy, I’ll let you have it all if you want it. You keep what you’ve got. She’s me own sister. On’y I’ll have to wait a while, for I don’t want to fetch into the Sisters any less money than I’ve spoke to Sister Agnes about.”

“I’m a-goin’ to pay ye back every cint of it, Mag, and God bless ye! But it ‘most makes me hate Dora to see you so good. And I tell you, Maggie, the first thing when she gits here she’s got to explain about that fellow down at Larne that she told me about.”

“Andy,” said Maggie, “d’ye mind now what I say. I’ve suffered enough on account of Dora’s takin’ you away from me, but I’d rather die with a broken heart than to have anything to do with you if you are afther breakin’ that poor child’s heart when she comes here.”

“Oh, then you did keer for me a little, Maggie darlint?” exclaimed Andy. “I thought you said you never did keer!”

Maggie was surprised. “I don’t keer for you, nor any other man, and I never—-” But here she paused. “You ought to be ashamed to be talkin’ that way to me, and you engaged to Dora. There, now, take the money, Andy, and git Dora’s ticket, and don’t let’s hear no more foolish talkin’ that it would break the poor dear orphan’s heart to hear. The poor baby’s got nobody but you and me to look afther her, now her mother’s gone, and it’s a shame and a sin if we don’t do it.”

IV.

Margaret Byrne hurried her work through. The steamer that brought Dora had come in that day. Dora was met at Castle Garden by her aunt, and Margaret had got permission to go to see her in the evening. As Andy Doyle had to go the same way, he stopped for Maggie. All the way over to the aunt’s house in Brooklyn he was moody and silent, the very opposite of a man going to meet his betrothed. Margaret was quiet, with the peace of one who has gained a victory. Her struggle was over. There was no more any danger that she should be betrayed into bearing off the affections of her sister’s affianced lover.

Maggie greeted Dora affectionately, but Dora was like one distraught. She held herself aloof from her sister, and still more from Andy, who, on his part, made a very poor show of affection.

“Well,” said Dora after a while, “I s’pose you two people have been afther makin’ love to one another for six months.”

“You hain’t got any right to say that, Dora,” broke out Andy. “Maggie’s stood up fer you in a way you didn’t more’n half desarve, and it’s partly Maggie’s money that brought 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.”