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m* OOWA.W DOV t.-t PAST a. Tkt Country of Uu Hainto. CHAPTERL OS THS GREAT ALKALI PLAIN. In the central portion of the great North American continent there lies an arid and repulsive desert which for many a long year served as a barrier against the advance of civilization. From the Sierra Nevada to Nebraska and from the Yellowstone river in the north to the Colorado upon the south is a region of desolation and silence. Nor is nature always in one mood throughout this grim district. It com prises snow-capped and lofty moun tains and dark and gloomy valleys. There are swift-flowing rivers which dash through jagged canyons, and there are enormous plains which in winter are white with snow and in summer are gray with the saline ali.ali dust. They all preserve, however, the common characteristics of barrenness, inhospitality and misery. There are no inhabitants of this land of despair. A band of I’awnees or of Blackfeet may occasionally traverse it In order to reach other hunting grounds, but the hardiest of the braves are glad to lose sight of those awesome plains, and to find themselves once more upon their prairies. The coyote skulks among the scrub, the buzzard flaps heavily through the air, and the clumsy grizzly bear lumbers throuf the dark ravines, and picks up such sustenance as it can among the rocks. These are the sole dwellers in the wil derness. In the whole world there can be no more dreary view thaln that from the northern slope of the Sierra Blanca As far as the eye can reach stretches the great flat plainland, all dusted over with patches of alkali, and intersected by clumps of the dwarfish chaparral bushes On the extreme verge of the horizon lies a long chain of mountain peaks, with their rugged summits flecked with snow. In this great stretch of country there is no sign of life, nor of anything appertaining to life. There is no bird in the steel-blue heaven, no movement upon the dull, gray earth—above all, there is abso lute silence. Listen as one may, there Is no shadow of a sound in all that mighty wilderness; nothing but silence —complete and heart-subduing silence. It has been said there is nothing ap pertaining to life upon the broad plain. That is hardly true. Looking down from the Sierra Blanco, one sees a pathway traced out across the desert, which winds away and is lost in the extreme distance. It Is rutted with wheels and trodden down by the feet of many adventurers. Here and there are scattered white objects which glisten in the sun, and stand out against the dull deposit of alkali. Ap proach and examine theml They are bones; some large and coarse, others smaller and more delicate. The for mer have belonged to oxen, and the latter to men. For fifteen hundred miles one may trace this ghastly cara van route by these scattered remains of those who had fallen by the way- side. Looking down on this very scene, there stood upon the 4th of May, 1847, A solitary traveler. His appearance was such that he might have been the very genius or demon of the region. An observer would have found it diffi cult to say whether he was nearer to forty or to sixty. His face was lean and haggard, and the brown, parch ment-like skin was drawn tightly over the projecting bones; his long, brown hair and beard were all flecked and dashed with white; his eyes were sunken in his head, and burned with pn unnatural luster, while the hand Vvhich grasped his rifle was hardly more fleshy than that qf a skeletiQQ. As he stood, he leaned upon his weapon for support, and yet his tall figure and the massive framework of his bones suggested a wiry and vigorous consti tution. His gaunt face, however, and his clothes, which hung so baggily over hi* shriveled limbs, proclaimed what it wap that gave him that senile snd decrepit appearance. The man was dying—dying from hunger and from thirst. He had toiled painfully down the ravine and on to this little elevation, in the vain hope of seeing some signs of water. Now the great salt plain stretched before his eyes, and the dis tant belt of savage mountains, without pslgn anywhere of planter tree, which plight Indicate the presence of moist ure. In all that broad landscape there was no gleam of hope. North and east and west he looked with wild questioning eyes, and then he realized that his wanderings had come to an end, and that there, on that barren crag, he was about to die. “Why not here, as well as In a feather bed, twenty years hence,” he muttered, as he seated himself In the shelter of a bowlder. ' Before sitting down, he had de posited upon th# ground his useless rifle, and also a large bundle tied up in a gray shawl, which he had parried slung over his right shoulder. It ap peared to be somewhat too heavy for his strength, for, in lowering it, it came down on the ground with some little violence. Instantly there broke from the gray parcel * little moaning pry, and from it there protruded a junall, »care4 fftCO* with very bright brown eyes, sn4 two little speckled dimpled fists. “You've hurt jpet" said a childish voice, reproachfully. “Have I though?” the man answered, penitently; "I didn’t go for to do it.” At he spoke he unwrapped the gray shawl and extricated a pretty little girl of about five years of age, whose dainty shoes and smart pink frock, with its little linen apron, all bespok* a mother’s oars. The child was pals and wan, but her healthy arms and legs showed that she had suffered less than her companion. “How is It now?” he answered, an*- lously, for she was still robbing the towsy golden curls which covered the bock of her bead. “Kiss It and make It well,” she said, with nxaritv. shoving the U- '' ‘ Jured part up to him. "T nat s wnaz mother used to da Where’s mother?” “Mother’s gone. I guess you'll see her before long.” ‘•Gone, eh!” said the little girl. i’Fnnny, she didn't say good-by; she 'most always did if she was just goin' over to auntie's for tea, and now she's been away for three days Say, it's awful dry, ain't it? Ain’t there no water nor nothing to eat?" “No, there ain't nothing, dearie. You’ll just need to be patient awhile, and then yen’ll be all right Put your head up agin me like that and then you’ll feel better. It ain’t easy to talk when your lips is like leather, but I guess, I’d best let you know how the cards lie. What’s that you’ve got?" “Pretty things! fine things!” cried the little girl enthusiastically, holding up two glittering fragments of mica. "When we goes back to home I’ll give them to Brother Bob.” “You'll see prettier things than them soon,” said the man, confidently. “You just wait a bit I was going to tell you, though—you remember when we left the river?" “Oh, yes.” “Well, we reckoned we’d strike an other river soon, d’ye see? But there was somethin’ wrong; compasses, or map, or somethin', and It didn't tnrn np. Water ran out. J ust except a lit tle drop for the likes of you and— and—" , "And you couldn't wash yourself," In terrupted his companion gravely, star- ! n'r np at his grimy visage. “No, nor drink. And Mr. Bender, he was the first to go, and then Indian Pete, and then Mrs. McGregor, and then Johnny Hones, and then, dearie, your mother.” “Then mother's a deader, too," cried the little girl, dropping her face in her pinafore and sobbing bitterly. “Yes, they all went except yon and me. Then I thought there was some chance of water in this direction, so 1 heaved you over my shoulder and we tramped it together. It don’t seem as though we’ve improved matters.' There’s an almighty small chance for us now!” “Do you mean that we are going to die, too?” asked the child, checking her sobs, and raising her tear-stained face. “I guess that's about the size of it." "Why didn't you say so before?” she said, laughing gleefully. “You gave me such a fright. Why, of course, now as long as we die we’U be with mother again.” “Yes, you will, dearie.” "And you, too. I'll tell her how aw ful good you’ve been. I’ll bet she meets us at the door of Heaven with a big pitcher of water, and a lot of buck wheat cakes, hot, and toasted on both sides, like Bob and me was fond of. How long will it be first" “I don't know—not very long." The man's eyes were fixed upon the north ern horizon. In the blue vault of the heaven there appeared three little specks which Increased in size every moment, so rapidly did they approach. They speedily resolved themselves Into i three large brown birds, which circled 1 over the heads of the two wanderers, | and then settled upon some rocks ; which overlooked them. They were : buzzards, the vultures of the west, whose coming Is the forerunner of l death. “Cocks and hens!” cried the little girl, gleefully, pointing at their ill- omened forms, and clapping her hands to make them rise. “Say, did God make thiscountry?" “In course He did,” said her com panion, rather startled by this unex pected question. "He made the country down in I1U- nois, and He made the Missouri," the little girl continued. “I guess some body e)se made the country in these parts. It's not nearly so well done, They forgot the water and the trees. ” “What would ye think of offering up prayer?" the man asked, diffidently. “It ain't night yet,” she answered. “It don’t matter. 11 ain’t quite reg ular, but He won't mind that, yon bet, i Ypu SAY pver them ones that you used to say every night In the wagon when we was on the plains.” “Why don’t you say some yourself?” the child asked, with wondering eyes. "I disremember them,” he answered. “I hain't said none since I was half the height o' that gun. I guess it’s never too late. You say them out, and I'll stand by and come in on the choruses.” “Then you’ll need to kneel down, and me, too,” she said, laying the shawl out for that purpose. “You'ya got to put your hands up like this. I| makes you feel kind of good.” It was a strange sight, had there been anything but the buzzards to see It. Side by side on the narrow shaw) knelt the two wanderers, the little, prattling child and the reckless, haplt ened adventurer. Her chubby face and his haggard, angular visage were both turned up to the cloudless heaven In heartfelt entreaty to th|( dread being with whom they were face to face, while the two voices—the one thin and clear, the other deep and harsh—united in the entreaty for mercy and forgiveness. The prayer finished, they resumed their scat in the shadow of the bowlder until the child fell asleep, nestling upon the broad breast of her protector. He watched over her slumber for some time, but nature proved to be too strong for him. Feu three day* and three nights foe ha<| allowed himself neither rest nor im pose. Slowly the eyelids drooped over the tired eyes, and the heqd sunk lower upon the breast, until the man’a grizzled beard was mixed with the golden tresses of his companion, and both slept the same deep and dream less slumber- Had the wanderer remained awake for another half-honr a strange sight would have met his eyes. Far away on ine extreme verge oi w»e plain there rose up a little 8 P r ®y dust, very slight at first, and hardly »• be distinguished from the mists of the distance, but gradually growing higher and broader until It formed a solid. walMemied oIpwI XM« continued to increase in sue until it became evident that It could only be raised by a great multitude of moving creatures. In more fertile spots the observer would have come to the con clusion that one of those great herds of bisons which graze upon the prairie land was approaching him. This was obviously impossible In there arid wilds. As the whirl of dost drew nearer to the solitary bluff upon which the two castawaye were reposing, the canvas-covered tilts of wagons and the figures of armed horsemen began to show up through the haze, and the apparition revealed itself as being a great caravan upon its journey for the west. But what acaravan! When the head of it had reached the base of the mountains, the rear was not yet visible on the horizon. Right across the enormous plain stretched the straggling array, wagons and TUP. CHILD FELL ASLEEP NESTLING ON THE BROAD BREAST OP HEB PROTECTOR. csrts, men on horseback and men on foot. Innumerable women who stag gered along under burdens, and chil dren who toddled beside the wagons or peeped out from under the white coverings. This was evidently no or dinary party of Immigrants, but rather some nomad people who had been com pelled from stress of circumstances to seek themselves a new country. There rose through the clear air a confused clattering and rumbling from this great mass of humanity, with the creaking of wheels and the neighing horses. Lond as it was, it was not suf ficient to rouse the two tired wayfarers above them. At the head of the column there rode a score or more of grave, iron-faced men, clad in somber, homespun gar ments and armed with rifles. On reach- the base of the bluff they halted and held a short council among themselves. “The wells are to the right, my brothers,” said a one, a hard-lipped, clean-shaven man with grizzly hair. “To the right of the Sierra Blanco— so we shall reach the Rio Grande,” said another. “Fear not for water,” cried a third. "He who coaid draw it from the rocks will not now abandon His own chosen people.” “Amen! Amen!" responded the whole party. They were abont to resume their journey when one of the youngest and keenest-eyed uttered an exclamation and pointed up at the rugged crag above them. From its summit there fluttered a little wisp of pink, showing up hard and bright against the gray rocks behind. At the sight there was a general reining up of horses and nn slinging of guns, while fresh horsemen came galloping up to reinforce the vanguard. The word “redskins” was on every lip. “There can’t be any number of In juns here,” said the elderly man who appeared to be In command. “We have passed the Pawnees, and there are no other tribes until we cross the great mountains.” “8hall I go forward and see. Brother Stangerson?” asked one of the band. “And I,” “And I," cried a dozen voicea “Leave your horses below and we will wait yon here,” the elder answered. In a moment the young fellows had dismounted, fastened their horses, and were ascending the precipitous slope which led up to the object which had excited their curiosity. They advanced rapidly and noiselessly, with the con fidence and dexterity of practised scouts. The watchers from the plain below could see them flit from rock to rock until their figures stood out against the sky-line. The young man who had first given the alarm was lead ing them. Suddenly his followers saw him throw np his hands, at though overcome with astonishment, and on joining him they were affected in the same way by the sight which met their eyes. On the little plateau which crowned the barren hill there stood a single giant bowlder,and against this bowlder there lay a tall man, long-bearded and hard-featured, but of an excessive thin ness. His placid face and regular breathing showed that he was fast asleep. Beside him lay a little child, with her round white arms encircling his brown, sinewy neck, and her golden-haired head resting upon the breast of his velveteen tunic. Her rosy lips were parted, showing the regular line of snow-white teeth within, and a playful smile played over her infantile features. Her plump little white legs, terminating in white socks, and neat shoes with shining buckles, offered a strange contrast jo the long, shriveled members of her companion. On the ledge of rook above this strange couple there stood three solemn bnz- zArds, who, at the sight of the new comers, uttered raucous screams of dis appointment and flapped sullenly away. The cries of the foul birds awoke the two sleepers, who stared about them in bewilderment. The man staggered jfi his feet and lodk«d dpwn upon the plain which had been so desolate when sleep had overtaken him. and which was now traversed by this enormous body of men and of beasts. His face assumed an expression of Incredulity as be gazed, and he passed his bony hand over his eyes. “This is wlmt they call delirium, I guess,” he mattered. The child stood beside him, holding on to the skirt of his coat, and said noth ing. bnt looked aU round her with the wondering, questioning gaze of child hood. The rescuing party were speedily able tc convince the two castaway! that their appearance was no delusion. One of them seized the little girl and hoisted her npon his shoulder, while two others supported her gaunt com panion and assisted him toward the wagon*. “My name Is John Ferrier," the wan derer exclaimed; “me and the little un are all that’s left o’ twenty-one people. The rest Is aU dead o' thirst and hun ger away down In the south." “Is she your child?" asked some one. “I guest she Is now,” theotiiercried, defiantly; "she’s mine 'caul* | saved har. No one vUl Ukfi hw |1TH frlW me. Khe’a Lucy renter trem to is nay on. Who are you, though?” he con tinued, glancing with cariosity at hii stalwart, sunburned rescuers "There seems to be a powerful lot of ye.” “Nigh upon ten thousand," said one of the young men. “We are the per secuted children of God—the chosen ol the angel Herons." "I never heard teU on him,” said the wanderer. “He appears to have chosen a fair crowd of ye.” “Do not jest at that which is sacred,” said the other, sternly. “We are ot those who believe in those sacred writ ings, drawn In Egyptian lettera on plates of beaten gold, which were handed unto the holy Joseph Smith at Falmyrm. We have come from Nau- voo, in the state of Illinois, where we had founded our temple. We have come to seek a refuge from the violent man and from the godless, even though it be the heart of the desert” The name of Nauvoo evidently re called recollections to John Ferrier. “I see,” he said; “you are the Mor mons.” “We are the Mormons,” answered his companions with one voice. “And where are you going?" “We do not know. The hand of God is leading us under the person of our prophet You must come before him. He shall say what is to be done with yon." They had reached the base of the hill by this time, and were surrounded by crowds of the pilgrims—pale-faced, meek-looking women, strong, laughing children, and anxious, earnest-eyed men. Many were the cries of aston ishment and of commiseration which arose from them when they perceived the youth of one of the strangers and the destitution of the other. Their escort did not halt, however, but pushed on, followed by a great crowd of Mormons, until they reached a wag on which was conspicnous for 'its great size, and for the gaudiness and smart ness of its appearance. Six horses were yoked to it, whereas the others were furnished with two, or, at most, four apiece. Beside the driver there sat a man who could not have been more than thirty years of age, but whose massive head and resolute expression marked him as a leader. He was lead ing a brown-backed volume, but as the crowd approached he laid it aside and listened attentively to an account of the episode. Then he turned to the two castaway* “If we take you with us," he said. In solemn words, “it can only be as be lievers in our own creed. We shall have no wolves in our fold. Better far HE TURNED TO IKE TWO CAXTAWATS. that your bones should bleach In this wilderness than that yon should prove to be that little speck of decay which In time corrupts the whole fruit. WU1 you come with us on these terms?” “Guess I'll come with you on sny terms,” ssid Ferrier, with such em phasis that the grave elders could not restrain a smile. The leader alone re tained his stern, Impl-essive expression. “Take him. Brother Stangerson,” he said, “give him food and drink, and the chUd likewise. Let It be your task al so to teach him our holy creed. We have delayed long enough. Forward! On, on to ZionI” “On, on to ZionI” cried the crowd of Mormons, and the words rippled down the long caravan, passing from mouth to mouth untU they died away in a dull murmur in the far distance. With a cracking of whips and a creaking of wheels tha great wagon got Into mo tion, and soon the whole caravan was winding along ones more- Tha elder to whose care the two waifs had been ooinmitted led them to his wagon, where a meal was already awaiting them. “Yon shall remain here,” he said. "In a few days yon wiU have recov ered from your fatigue* In the mean time, remember that now and forever C are of our religion. Brighasa Young said It, and he has spokan with the voice of Joseph Smith, which la the voice of God.” CHAPTER IL TBS PLOVER OP UTAE. This Is not the place to commemorate the trials and privations endured by the Immigrant Mormons before they came to their final haveq. From the shores of the hflssisslppi to the western slopes qf jlie Rooky mountains they had struggled on with a constancy almost unparalleled in history. The savage man, and the savage beast, hunger, thirst, fatigue and disease— every Impediment which nature could place In tha way, had all been over come with Anglo-Sason tenacity. Yet the long journey %nd the accumulated terrors had shaken the hearts of the stoutesj among them- There was not one who did noj sink upon his knees in heartfelt prayer when they saw the broed valley of Utah bathed In the sunlight beneath them, and learned from the lips of their leader that this was the promised land, and that these virgin acres were to'bo theirs forever more. Young speedily proved himself to be a skillful administrator as well %s a resolute chief. Maps were drawn and charts prepared, |n which the future city wss sketched «uV AH around farm* wore apportioned and allotted in proportion to the standing of each In dividual The tradesman was put to his trade and the artisan to his eaUiag. It> the town streets and squares sprang np as if by magic. In the country there was draining and hedging, planting and clearing, until the next summer saw the whole country golden with the wheat crop Everything pros pered In the strange settlement. Above all, the great temple which they had erected In the* center of the city grew ever taller and taller. From the first blush of dawn until the closing of the twilight, the clatter of the hammer and the rasp of the saw were never absent from the monument which the immigrants erected to Him who had led them s*fc through many The two castaway* John remer mio the little girl who had shared his for tunes and had been adopted as hla daughter, accompanied the Mormons to ths end of their pilgrimage. Little Lucy Ferrier was borne along pleas antly enough in Elder Stangerson’s wagon, a retreat which she shared with the Mormon’s three wives and with his son, a headstrong, forward boy of twelve Having rallied, with the elasticity of childhood, from the shock caused by her mother's death, she soon became a pet with the women, and reconciled herself to this new Ufa In her moving canvas-covered home. In the meantime, Ferrier, having re covered from his privations, distin guished himself as a useful guide and an indefatigable hunter. 8o rapidly did be gain the esteem of his new companions that when they reached the end of their wanderings it was unanimously agreed that he should be provided with as large and as fertile a tract of land as any of the settler* with the exception of Young himself, and of Stangerson, Kimball, Johnston and Drebber, who were the four princi pal elder* On the farm thus acquired John Fer rier buUt himself a substantial log house, which received so many addi tions In succeeding years that it grew into a roomy villa. He was a man of a practical turn of mind, keen In his dealings and skillful with his hand* His iron constitution enabled him to work morning and evening at improv ing and tilling his land* Hence it cams about that his farm and all that belonged to him prospered exceeding ly. In three years he was better off than his neighbors, in six he was well to do. In nine he was rich, and in twelve there were not half a dozen men In the whole of Salt Lake City who could compare with him. From the great inland sea to the distant Wah- satch mountains there was no name better known than that of John Fer rier. There was one way, and only one. in which he offended the susceptibilities of his coreligionist* No argument or persuasion could ever induce him to set up a female establishment after the manner of his companion* He never gave reasons for this persistent refusal, but contented himself by reso lutely adhering to his determination. There were some who accused him of lukewarmness In his adopted religion, and others who put It down to greed of wealth and reluctance to incur ex pense. Others, again, spoke of some early love affair, and of a fair-haired girl who had pined away on the shores of the Atlantic. Whatever the reason, Ferrier remained strictly celibate. In every other respect he conformed to the religion of the young settlement, and gained the name of being an or thodox and straight-walking man. Lucy Ferrier grew up within the log house, and assisted her adopted father In all his undertaking* The keen air of the mountains and the balsamic odor of the pine trees took the place of nurse and mother to the young girl As year succeeded to year she grew taller and stronger, her cheek more ruddy and her step more elastic. Many a wayfarer upon the high-road which ran by Perrier’s farm felt long-forgot ten thoughts revive in his mind as he watched her lithe, girlish figure trip ping through the wheat field* or met her mounted upon her father's mus tang, and managing it with all the ease and grace of a true child of the west. So the bud blossomed Into a flower, and the years which saw her father the richest of farmers left her as fair a specimen of American girl hood as could be found on the whole Pacific slope. It was not the father, however, who first discovered that the child had de veloped into the woman. It seldom Is In such case* That mysterious change Is too subtle and too gradual to be measured by date* Least of all does the maiden herself know It until the tone of a voice or the touch of a hand sets her heart thrilling within her, and she learn* with a mixture of prids and of fear, that a new and larger na ture has awakened within her. There are few who cannot recall that day and remember the one little incident which heralded the dawn of a new life. In the case of Lucy Ferrier the occasion was serions enough in Itself, apart from ita future Influence on her destiny and that of many beside* It was a warm Jnne morning, and the Latterday Saints were as busy as the bees whose hive they have chosen for their emblem. In the fields and in the streets rose the same hum of human Industry. Down the dusty highroads defiled long streams of heavily laden mule* all heading to the west, for the gold fever had broken out In Cali fornia, and the overland route lay throngh the city of the elect. There, too, were droves of sheep and bullocks coming in from the out- I* AN INSTANT IT REARED UPON ITS RIND LEG* lying pasture land* and trains of tired Immigrant* men and horses equally weary of their interminable journey. Through all this motley assemblage, threading her way with the skill of an accomplished rider, there galloped Lucy Ferrier, her fair faoe flushed with the exercise and her long chestnut hair floating ont behind her. She had a commission from her father In the city and was dashing in. as she had done many a time before, with all the fearlessness of youth, thinking only of her task and how it was to be per formed. The travel-stained adven turers gazed after her in astonish ment, and even the unemotional In dian* journeying In with their peltry, relaxed their accustomed stoicism as they marveled at the beauty of the pale-faced maiden. She had reached the outskirts of the city, when she found the road blocked by a great drove of cattle, driven by a half-dozen wild-Woking herdsmen from the plain* |n her Impatience the en deavored to pas* this obstacle by push- jog her horse Into what appeared to be a gap. Scarcely had she got fairly In to It, however, before the beasts closed tm behind her, and the found berslf ot nense-eyeo, bullock* Accustomed aa she was to deal with cattle, she was net alarmed at her situation, but took ad vantage of every opportunity to nrge her horse on in the hope of pushing her way through ths cavalcade. Un fortunately, the horns of one of the beast* either by accident or design, came In violent contact with ths flank of the mastsng, and excited it to mad ness. In an Instant it reared up on its hind legs with a snort of rage, and pranced and tossed in a way that would have unseated any bat a most skillful rides. The situatloa was full of peril Every plunge of the ex cited horse brought it against the horns again, and goaded it to fresh tnadnes* It was all that the girl could do to keep herself in the saddle, yet a slip would mean a terrible death under the hoofs of the unwieldy and terrified animal* UK- accustomed to sudden emergenele* her head began to swim, and her grip upon the bridle to relax. Choked by the rising cloud of dust and by the steam from the struggling creature* she might have abandoned her efforta In despair, but for a kindly voles at “I AH OPP, LUCT," HE SAID. her elbow which assured her of asslsV ance. At the sam-- moment a sinewy brown hand caught the frightened horse by^the curb, and, forcing a way through the drove, soon brought her to the outskirt* “You're not hurt, I hope, mis*” said her preserver respectfully. She looked up at his dark, fierce face, and laughed saucily. “I'm awful frightened,” she said naively; “whoever would have thought that Poncho would have been so scared by a lot of cows?" "Thank God yor. keptyonr seat,” the other said earnestly. He waa a tall, savage-looking young fellow, mounted on a powerful roan horse, and clad In the rough dress of a hunter, with a long rifle slung over his shoulder* "1 guess you are the daughter of John Ferrier,” he remarked. "I taw you ride down from his house. When you see him, ask him If he remembers the Jefferson Hopes, of St Lout* If he's the same Ferrier,* my father and he were pretty thick." “Hadn't you better come and ask yourself?” she asked, demurely. The young fellow seemed pleased at the suggestion, and his dark eyas sparkled with pleasure. ’T'U do so," he said; “we've been in the mountains for two months, and are not over and above in visiting condition. He must take us as he finds us." “He has a good deal to thank you for, and so have I,” she answered; “he'i awful fond of me. If thoee cows had jumped on me he'd have never got over It” “Neither would I,” said her com panion. "You? Well, I don’t see that It would make much matter to you, anyhow. You ain’t even a friend of ours.” [TO BB CONTINUED.] CHARLESTON. SUMTER AND V HORTHKRN RAILROAD CHARLES E. KIMBALL Receiver In Effect Jan. 16, 1804 NORTH. SOUTH. 1 2 A.M. F.M. Lv 7.80 Charleston 8.45 At* 8.40 Pregnali’a 7.27 10.47 Snmter 5.27 12.05 Darlington 4.12 19 56 Bennettsville 8.21 1.90 Gibeon 2.57 1.47 Hamlet 2.80 Ar 6.00 Raleigh 10.15 Lv P.M F.M. No. 1 eonnnects with Seaboard Air Line at Hamlet for Raleigh Wilmington, Charlotte, Shel by, Routberfordton ; and at Charlotte with R. A D. Vestibule Limited for Washington and New Y’ork. Passen gers can take sleepers at Charlotte at 8 89 p. m. No. 2 passengers by this train have through Sleeper* New York to Char lotte, connects with 8. A. L. at Ham let from Charlotte, Raleigh and North, and from Wilmington, con nects with 8. C. Ry. at PregnalU for Charleston, Columbia, Augusta and the West. Dinner at Hamlet. C. MILLARD, Superintendent. C k D. and C. A 8. RAILROADS. • In effect Dec 8, 1893. Through Passenger Train. Leave Wadesboro 4.30 a m Bennett’s 4.51 a if Morven’s 5.04 a m McFarland 5 17 a m Cheraw 6.00 am Cash's 6.12 am Society Hill 6.26 am Dove's 6.44 c. m Floyd’s 6.49 a m Darlington 7.00 a u% Palmetto 7.11 a m Arrive Florence 7.25 a m Leave Florence 7.15 p m Palmetto 7.28 p m Darlington 7.88 p m Floyd’s 7.50 p m Dove’s 7 55 p m Society Hill 8 13pm Cash’s 8.27 p m Cheraw 8.50 p m McFarland 8.13 pm Morven's 9.89 p m Bennett’s 9.54 p m Arrive Wadesboro 10.15 p m Freight Train. Leave Florence 7.30 a m Darlington 8.40 a m Arrive I'heiaw 11.20 a m Leave Cheraw 1.00 p m Darlington 4.00 p m Arrive Florence 5.00 p m A. F. RAVENEL, President. N ortheastern railroad. In effect Jan. 11, 1894. SOUTH BOUND. Bucklsn's Arnica Salvs. The Best Salve in the world for Cuts, Bruises, Bores. Ulcers, Salt Rheum, Fever Sores, Tetter, Chapped Hands Chilblains, Corns, and all Skin Eruptions, and positively cures Piles, or no pay required. It is guaranteed to give perfect satisfaction, or money refunded. Price 25 cents ir box. For sale at Willcox & ’s drugstore. No. 61 Leave Florence Klngstree.-. 8.58 a w I janes Arrive Charleston No. 85. Leave Florence Lanes Arrive Charleston No. 23. Leave Florence Klngstree I sines Arrive Charleston No. 53. Leave Lanes - 7.05 p m Arrive Charleston 8.45 p m |Are lYou — m ■ ■ | out of employment, or in s : a position that you do not: s like ? Possibly the solic-; siting of Life Insurance isf £ your special forte. Many £ speople have, after trial,* sheen surprised at theirs • fitness for it To all such { £ it has proved a most con- £ ; genial and profitable occu- • £ pat ion. The Managements :of the \ J | Equitable Life j £ in the Department of the £ • Carolinas, desires to adds £ to Its force, some agents f • of character and ability.] £ Write for information. £ W. J. Roddey, | Rock Hill, 5. C. XT A RTS VILLK RAILROAD. ’ CL In effect Dec 8,1898. DAILY MIX CD TRAIN Leave Hartsvillv' G.00 a m Jovann ..6.80 a m Floyd’* - ..... ASS a m ArriveDarllngton....a — 7.90 a m Leave Darlington....^ 6.80 p m Floyd’s..... 8.00 p m Jovann i 8.2'.' p m Arrrive Hartaville 8.40 p R> Train on O. A D. R. R. connect* at Florence with No. 61 Train. NORTH BOUND. No. 78. Leave Charleston 3.85 a m Lanes 5.30 a m Kingatree 5 52 a m Arrive Florence 7.10 a m No. 60 Leave Charleston 5.00 p m Lanes 7.05 p m Kingatree 7.25 p m Arrive Florence 8.50 p m No. 14. Leave Charleston 8.80 p m Lanes 5.29 p m Klngstree 5.45 p m Arrive Florence 6.45 p m No. 52. Leave Charleston 7.00 a m Arrive Lane* 8.35 a m No. 59 runs through to Columbia via Central R. R. of S. C. No. 78 runs solid to Wilming ton, N. C., making close connection with W. A W. R. R. for ail points North. Train No. 14 rnns via Wilson and Fayetteville—Short Line—and makes close connection for all points North. J. F. DIVINE. Gen. Sopt. w ILMINGTON, COLUMBIA A AUGUSTA RALROAD. In effect Dec. 3, 1898. SOUTH BOUND. No. 55. Leave Wilmington. 8.20 p m Marion 611 p m Arrive Florence 6 50 p m No. 60. Leave Florence 7.10 pm Snmter 8.28 p m Arrive Columbia 10.00 p m No. 58. Leave Florence...-. 7.45 a m Arrive Snmter 9 20 a m No. 52. Leave Snmter 9.53 am Arrive Colombia 11.05 am No. 59 runs throngh from Charles ton vin Central Railroad; leaving Lanes 8-40 a m. Manning 9 18 a m. NORTH ROUND. Leavs Columbia ...... Snmter - Arrive Florence Leave Florence ... Marion Arrive Wilmington Leave Colombia.. Arrive Snmter Leave Colombia . Bomter Arrive Florence— No. 51. . 4.30a i .. 5-57 a i . 7.16 a i No. 60. .. 7.40 a i ... 8.23 a i ...11.10 a ] No. 53. . 4.20 p: . 5.85 p i No. 59. . 5.45 p in . 6.55 p m Ji F. DIVIDE, Gso. I No. 88 runs thiougu w> weariest on via central Railroad, arriving Man ning A18 p m Lanes 7.00 p m, charleston8.45 pas. Trains on Manchester and Augusta B. R-, leave Snmter dally except Son- day, 10.50 a. m., arrive Rimini 11:59 a. m. Returning leave Rimini 1.00 p. m.. arrive Snmter 9:10 p. m. Trains on Wilmington, Chadbonrm and Conway Railroad leave Chad- bourn at 10.10 a m, arrive at Conway 12.80 p m, returning leave Conway at 9:00 p. m., arrive Chadbonrn 4:50p. m. Leave Chadbonrn 7.00 a m and 5.18 pm, arrive at Hnb7 45atu and A60 p m. Returning leave Hub S 15 a m and A80 p m, arrive at Chad ixui > ■ A00 a m ana 7.18 p u. Daily extipi * u, $S*f,arna«.«|A’i Bapt. Z2ET -1