Buried in eglantine and honeysuckle, soon no one would suspect the home-made character of Joliet's château. It became the centre of my botanizing excursions. Francine grew into a fair, slim girl, like the sweetest and most innocent of Gavarni's sketches, and sold flowers to the passers-by. * * * * * Such were the souvenirs I had of this brave tavern-keeper in his old capacity of roadster and tramp. Now, after an hiatus of years, I found him before me in a different character at the beginning of my roundabout trips to Marly. But what had become of my favorite little rose-merchant? "Francine?" asked Joliet briskly, as if he was wondering whom I could mean by such a name. "You mean my wife? Poor thing! She is dead." "I am speaking of your daughter, Father Joliet." "Oh, my daughter, my girl Francine? She went to live with her godmother. It was ten years ago." "And you have not seen her since?" "Yes--yes--two years back. She has gone again." "To her godmother?" "No." "Why so?" "Her godmother would not receive her. Don't wring my heart so, sir!" EDWARD STRAHAN. [TO BE CONTINUED.] OUR HOME IN THE TYROL. [Illustration: VIEW OF TAUFERS VALLEY.] CHAPTER VII. We left the Hof one August Friday--we were not superstitious--a goodly company, sufficient to freight the rumbling old stage-wagon which jolted daily between Bruneck and Taufers, a distance of nine miles. At this village the sedater portion of the party were to settle down with books, pencils and drawing-paper until the Alpine visit should have been paid.