s daughter. And amidst this flood of tears, father and
daughter were reconciled once more.

Mr. Rougeant grew rapidly better. He had something to live for now.
He, however, would not quit his farm.

"Why don't you come and live here?" he said to Frank one evening as
they sat near a blazing fire in the parlour of "Les Marches."

The idea struck Frank as being quite practicable. He was already
prevented, from want of room, to extend his business at the Rohais.

"You would not like to see greenhouses in your fields yonder;" he
said.

"Yes, I would; besides, I have a lot of capital which might be
profitably used up. We might form a partnership."

"I must think it over," said Frank. He cast a look towards Adele,
and as he met her beseeching eyes, he added smilingly: "I think we
may as well consider the matter as settled."

Frank's property at the Rohais was let. The farm at "Les Marches"
underwent a complete transformation.

For fully three months, there was such a rubbing and scrubbing,
painting and papering, that everything was turned completely
topsy-turvy.

Order was at last evoked, the furniture from the Rohais was brought
in and the farm-house was made a model of snugness and comfort
within.

Without, during those three months, nothing was heard but the noise
of the carpenter's hammers and the click of the glazier's tools.

Mr. Rougeant was as completely transformed as his farm. He looked
upon the whole with such an air of complacency that the neighbours
remarked: "He is in his second infancy."

CHAPTER XXVIII.

A SAD END OF A MISPENT LIFE.

In one of the numerous public-houses in the town of St. Peter-Port,
surrounded by a gang of "roughs," a man, still young, sat on a
stool.

His face was terribly emaciated, and on it, one could discern all
the traces of that demon, _alcohol_.

In one of his agitated hands, he held a half-filled glass, in the
other, a short, blackened clay-pipe.

His glassy eyes had a strange look.

He made an effort to carry the tumbler which he was holding to his
lips, but his nerves and muscles refused to act.

Here, we may as well say that this man's name was Tom Soher.

"What's the matter, Tom?" said one of the men.

"Nothing," responded he, making use of a very old form of lie.

At this reassuring statement, the company resumed their
conversation, and their drink.

But Tom, after placing his glass on the counter, retired to one
corner of the room, sat him