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YELrbOW BY © IOTA. =S CHAPTER XXXII. “I wonder whether the fel low is grasping the ‘high se riousness’ of Art, or goinir to the devil?” Strange was on his road to see Brydon, from whom that morning he had received a rather enigmatical note. "I didn t expect you this hour,” said Brydon, v.hen he arrived, ‘‘I thought it was that brute, the fellow over me, who always forgets his key. I came back to the old place, you see, from a sort of habit, and I thought too it would suit Mag and Con. I went to see them. They taught me a lot, those two girls; they had fine flesh tints, better than the French article as a rule.” ‘‘Have they been to see you?” “Yes, Mag’s married, and her figure!—throw your coat there —It’s a sin to see it; women of that order should die young.” “And Connie?” “Connie! she’s grown frowsy. I’m afraid it’s gin! There was a blackguard she‘walked with’ who levanted with a cook, so it’s censorious to grudge her a drop of comfort. But to think of jjkose pearly tints grown froitty!” he murmured, “to sell thatpooloring f >r a greasy mess of ppSttage! The folly of man is inscrutable!—Strange, you want desert air, your skin has lost tone! “Reason, my good boy, what else can you expect?” “I wonder if it’s all season,” thoughv the fellow, and an un accountable coldness ran down his spine. “1 wonder if he’s made a mis take too!” “How are you getting on, as to work?” “1 have to speak of something else first, and for reasons btest known to myself, I prefer fresh' air for it—will you stroll round?” “I should like to see the pic ture first,” said Strange. One of his old blushes mounted to Brydon’s cheeks. “Ljok at the light from that gin-palace on the red head of _ that child!” he went on, as they " turned the corner, “it’s funny what glorious effects one gets from the filthiest combinations! There is no light more bewilder ing and lovely than the phos- phoric blue flickerdrom a grave yard. “That effect now, those reek ing gin lights on that beastly dirty head, and the corpse lights are like a lot of writers’ work, no one can pass it by, it has a power to grasp and hold you, that cleaner things don’t have and such power means genius, don’t you think? Power strong enough, I mean, to stop a fel low's mind and nose low enough to batten on corruption? If tike corruption wasn’t made worth examining, one would only pass on, with a kick at the seething mass. Instead of that, one looks and spits, and looks and spits again, buts keeps looking and finally settles doiyn to en joy one’s self and then a fellow gets enervated and unmanned before he knows what he is about. Ho sees the pitiless truth of things, of course, but he loses every thing else—the re sult is very limiting when one thinks of it. Battening on cer tain books,” went on Brydon af ter a pause, “was the beginning of it, I think, then rottenness smells sweet after a time, and a fellow gets curious and wants to exploit on his own account. I did all sorts of things first, I tried trees, sun, shade, moon light; I walked blisters on my feet, 1 worked in the sweat of my brow, but nothing would still the brutal throbbing, and I went mad one day in that mad dening city. Art wasn’t worth a straw to save me. I made a beast of myself, the cheap sort of beast that I had tunds for, and—here is the result!” “Well, you’re a sorry object, it must be confessed!” “But that’s not the worst either—do you know I have al together lost the way to work; I can do nothing. Now some fel lows can go down in the gutter one day and mount up amongst the gods the next without turn ing a hair; it beats me.” “It’s a good deal a question of nationality,” said Strange, •‘En glishmen as a rule can’t do com plete work while they’re mud- larking; French fellows often can; just as no decent bourgeois John Bull has it in him to write tons of magnificent filth on a sort of principle. The fact is, no fellow of your temperament has any business to wallow in modern French realism, you haven’t tone enough. I felt certain this would happen, but you had to take your chance with your betters, and no doubt the experience hasn’t been all loss. I am sorry for you all the same; you’ll find your repent- anceadarned sight bitterer than the delirium was sweet. That is my experience anyway, and ‘ go harder with you; your health, you see, can’t stand it.” “It can’t, which makes me the bigger fool. To think of my work being knocked on the head, and to so little purpose! Especially,,’ he added naively, “when one has to do that sort of thing on the cheap.” “ Fello ws like you feel that sort of thing always, even if they have a pocket full of coin. You see, you are’too fastidious and sensitive to enjoy vice properly; and yet the queer thing is, it de bases you sooner than it does men of coarser make, unless it kills you right off the reel, as it mostly does. Stronger men have things to keep them up, you fellows haven’t; they get brutalized if you like, but it is the brutalization of men, not of women.” Here Brydon winced, possibly Strange saw him—he took no notice, however, but went on coolly: “They don’t get rotten-soft, and corrupt. Another thing that’s against you;yourfather’s a parson, and his father before him, and your mother is a par son’s daughter.” “Yes—what on earth has that to do with iti” “A lot. With inherited con science and spiritual feelings, and a sneaking regard for hell fire in every drop of your blood, things were sure to be made pretty hot for you in next to no time. Small wonder your work went to the devill” “I suppose it’s all the brutal truth,” said Brydon. “Did you expect this?” he asked with —’dden shyness. “Are you disappointed?” “I am two old to be disap pointed in any fellow, probably there’s nota thing you have done, I wouldn’t myself have done had I been in your skin. Now the question is, what’s to fit you for work again?” “I think,” said the boy dole fully, “the best thing I could do would be to cut my throat.” “If I felt like an ass I should hold my tongue about it, and take a blue pill. By the way, there’s some contradiction, for Blunt saw Legrun the other day, and he’s tremendously pleased with you.” “Oh, I took to swatting for a time, as a sop to Cerberus, and worked like the very devil at drawing, but somehow I’d rath er get a kick any day, than praise, when I know my work’s dishonest, done to cover filth; it’s an insult to Art.” “My good boy, don’t be mor bid! It was a good sight better to bring your lines into order than to do nothing.” “All the same, 1 have no sat isfaction in the work done then. “Ah, parson’s blood again— no need you should, but you needn’t add it to the list of your sins, that would be rather a work of supererogation, wouldn’t it?” “I would like to go out in the desert alone for forty days or so, and wrestle with anything that came along, God or the devil.” “A very proper attitude of mind and befitting your breed. In the meantime, when do you intend returning to Paris?” “I must go to morrow.” “Why must you?” “Because—” he hesitated, blushing furiously. “Good Heavens, man, speak out! Have we been friends for titeen years ftfr nothing?” “W^L beastliness, however cheap ymi do it, is costly. Even your magnificent commission has gone down the gutter.” “It wouldn’t pay either of us for you to return there just now, besides, I want you to come over and stay at my house.” “I cannot stay in the house with Lady Strange,” said bry don in a low voice, “I couldn’t. If I am not clean enough to work at my Art I am certainly not fit to eat and drink in her presence. I didn’t stay in my father’s house until my mother and sisters had gone away, and —Lady Strange, somehow, is divine tome. She is always the bride in that picture. I think,” he continued, with a strange softness in his voice, “for all her jeering at me, that-1 have painted the real woman.” It was Strange’s turn to wince this time. ““Look here, Strange,” the boy went on, still softly and with lowered head, “I finished that picture before I went into the sty. I wouldn’t have touch ed her with a dirty brush.” “My dear fellow, I know it! I should have liked you to have stayed with us. At any’ rate you will stay in London for a few days; I will be your banker, of course; it will after all, only a very trifling increase of your debt to me, and there’s plenty of time to pav that in.” He took held of the fellow’s arm and swung him round. “It’s getting late,” he said, “and I want to see the picture to-night,” They walked on in silence, the boy’s chivalrous adoration of his wife touched Strange sharply. All the same, he felt fastly in clined to turn round and pnnch his head for it. “How dared the fellow go speculatingon her possibilities!” he thought, “that is my busi ness. “Yet when one comes to think of it, I’m an ass, I might just as well go for the dozens of oth ers whose admiration is quite as vicarious. It’s not Gwen one of the lot goes mad over, it’s her double. Heigh ho! Biga my’s an awful imbarrassment.” “I tried to keep exactly to na ture in that last picture of Lady Strange,” said Brydon, as he set to unfastening the packing of his picture. “You succeeded,” said Strange. Brydon looked round. “You didn’t like it then—no more did I, I tried too hard to be faithful to the order.” “Well, and so you were, and that was what was wanted of you. Mrs. Waring, for whom the portrait was intended, liked it tremendously,” said Strange shortly, “Damn the fellow’s im pudence!” he thought. Brydon continued his cutting and unwinding, painfully red in the face. When it was all undone he waited for a moment before he removed the last covering, then he pulled it off with a quick soft movement, and from a vague feeling of half shy deli cacy he turned aside and began to cut up tobacco diligently. W hen Strange saw his wife, not the cold living abstraction, but a warm, big-hearted, divine- ly-natural creature, alive there on the canvas before him, a sudden soft rush of tears flooded his eyes, and he shook and reel ed at the queer warm shock of them \ “Brydon,” he said, turning round suddenly, “one makes a fool of one’s self over her, it is a tribute to your genius.” Brydon looked at him and hesitated, then he said in a half fearful tone, looking away: “It is no tribute to my genius, it is that face! I never cried, I have roared and howled, you know, scores of times, but I never cried properly till I saw it; it is the strongest and the most touching woman’s face I ever saw.” “It is, and you have done infi nite justiceto it.” “I had to paint her as she was there, I couldn’t help my self, I shall never again do any thing like it.” “What does Legrun say of it?” He was silent for a minute. “Did you think,” he asked at last, angrily, “that I did that for Legrun’s praise or blame? Did I paint her to be torn limb from limb by those steely eyes?” “As a matter of fact I did not expect anything half so sensible from you, but this—this,” he added slowly, with a spasm of infinite generosity, “this shall hang in tbe Academy.” “If it does,” said the boy, “I shall never touch a brush again ” “Well, we won’t discuss it now.” “Nor at any other time. I shouldn’t care a tup penny , don’t you know, for any fame for which you had to suf fer.” “There was no word of suffer ing to me, or to any one else.” “Who said there was? But do you see the alterations I made,” he went on hurriedly, “I made you even vaguer ttAfe you were and served the parson in the same way, and the car pet in Waring church was too strong altogether, I got a piece of stem green stuff and substitu ted it.” “Well, it’s a work of genius,” said Strange as he got into his coat. “I am not such a fool as to deny that, but I didn’t paint It, you know Here, you’ll break your neck on thqpe stairs, let me light you. Good night, dear old man.” CHAPTER XXXIII. When Mrs. Waring got the sketches of her children—for Strange had used almost physi cal force to compel Dacre to run over to Paris to sit to Brydon— the very first minute she found herself alone with them she cried her heart out over the two, then she sat herself down and systematically adored them. She had them hung in the li brary where she could see them from her writing table and only for their weight she would have had them carried to her room every night. Mr. Waring, in his emotion less way, valued his daughter’s gift, but this chronic passion of adoration was beyond him. He had already borne much with divine patience; he had seen bis wife carried away from his side for hours at a stretch, to waste her mind and soul in the duties of an ordinary squire’s wife, and she had come back to babble of babies in a way that made his blood run cold. He had caught her thoughts wandering at moments when the crisis of a discovery was setting in, and with tears in her eyes that the subject under discussion could in no wise account for. Ah, he had suffered in a thousand in definable ways! But yet there were moments when he had her still, just as in the sweet old times, body and soul and brain, all to himself; when she still put out all the force of her keen fine intellect and saw, with her beautiful in tuition, puzzles that had made his great man’s brain reel. Through all time had ever any man such a wife, he would think, as he watched her softly frowning, pondering ever a thought and bringing out a re sult with that charming diffi dence, that wonderful venera tion for the nice intricacies of truth that characterised her, looking withal so young, so soft, so serene. No wonder that the man’s heart clave unto her! And now those pictures! That sublimely haughty young woman—that big strong soldier with pluck of a most soulless British order stamped all over him, came in and robbed him of the better part of himself. They still sat side by side, hand in hand, and worked to gether, but they were no longer one. No wonder indeed, that untimely age fell upon the man and forced him with its chill hand down on his stick, a little heavier as each day passed! Mrs. Waring did not go out every day, her restless yearning often took her no farther than the children’s old nursery, where she would sit by their little chests of drawers and fin ger fheir old yellowing baby clothes with a shy sad wistful wonderment; she had never put a stitch into one of them, and their shapes and intricacies were sealed mysteries to her. Mary, now grown aged and gray, looked upon the state of affairs with much dissatisfac tion, and seemed likely to con tinue to do so, for things instead of getting better gjt worse. Mr. and Mrs. Fellowes did all they could to turn her gentle E ersistent grief into a more ealthy channel and were by no means careful to spare her any plain speaking, but it seem ed impossible to get her to fit Her new sweet sad experience into her old life anu to make a whole of it. It is a frightful grind to get a great heartful of fresh emotions, of new sorrows and joys, into a middle-aged woman, and not to cause a general disruption. It seemed rather hard, however, that Mr. Waring should half perish in his wife’s own partic ular earthquake. But though his grief lay down with him at night and rose with him day by day, he cherished her with ev- erincreasing tenderness, and never by word or look expressed the smallest atom of reproach. Toward the end of July a lit tle fleecy cloud of hope, no big ger than a man’s hand, appear ed upon the horizon, and Mr. Waring grasped it with nervous despair* After repeated puttings off, Gwen was coming for certain in a week or two, to remain un til the shooting took them North. “Perhaps now,” the poor man thought, “perhaps now she will find what she wants, and can rest and be satisfied, and our life will return to us. This ma ternal feeling must certainly be a very powerful and a very pre cious factor in a woman’s mak ing, or such an one as my wife would not be so touched and shaken by its advent and growth in her. It is a mystery, in truth, thus to come so late, born out of due season as it were, and so strongly to take possession of her. I certainly never should have classed her among the true mothers, the producing woman; they should be of a more robust, a more an imal type altogether. It is a most remarkable case, with cu rious complications. It is the daughter—the feminine part of her—my wife yearns and pants for, the masculine element seems to affect her but little; when our son Dacre visits us 1 have in vain looked for any symptoms of satisfaction or restfulness. “I feel so unusually depressed and aged, this afternoon,” he went on, slowly, laying down his fruitless pen, and gazing with sad eyes out of the win dow, “even my ordinary lucidi ty of brain seems clouding and thickening. It cannot be that f have already reached the ulti matum, and that the period of decadence is now upon me— that cannot surely be! Only just forty-seven,” he cried soft ly, and his face sank down in his hands on the study table. He raised it again, and went over to his cabinet and touched his heaps of manuscript one by one with loving, lingering ten derness, but a little shakily. “This but just begun!” he murmured; “this but just want ing the verification of an exper iment or two; these, notes for a new work, the most comprehen sive, the most exact we have yet made—ah! this book would have been very close up to the i truth, nearer to it than any-j thing yet produced.—She looked with suen keen, such very 1 youthful pleasure to the lighter task of compilation; the vouth- fulness in her intelleciual, pleasures is a very precious gift of my wife, “Here is a little satirical skit she wrote in a playful moment, how charming it is, how deli cate! Ah, my sweet young wife! More notes—more—and so few worked out to their final conclusion! Must I then take these symptoms as those of un timely decay,” he whispered sitting down again, “I, who looked to long years of honest labor in which I might have forged on farther than my fel lows, and have erected some fresh finger posts on the road to everlasting truth? To stop now, when the world is crying and wailing in the darkness of its ignorance, when men grasp any scrap of verified knowledge as a drowning man a straw, and must I be swept down the hill before I have breasted the crest? Must I sink to oblivion with my work but just begun, and with the heat of battle strong upon me—and she—my wife, my own, my helpmeet—Do none of these things strike and touch her, does this overmastering strange tumult of new emotions shut her heart to the awful beauty of truth? “It is strange” he repeated, “strange, and very sad. “The swift-running smooth course of life has been paral) zed for me, I am oppressed with tor turing doubts, and—and—I be lieve it is not age, it is not the years which have stunned my powers, I believe it is this new phase of her life; then comes the consideration; is this a passing phase, or is it permanent? 1 cannot face the question!” he cried with a groan, holding his head in both hands to steady it. Then he took his hat and stick, and made mechanically for the Rectory. She always came from that direction, and always sadder than when she went forth. But to-day she was different. When she saw her husband she did not keep to her ordinary soft listless movement, and then when she reached him, slip her nand into his mechanically from mere reflex action, and strike out eagerly into an infant anecdote. She started and flushed, and rau towards him with out stretched hands, and looked wistfully up in his face, and her mouth trembled as, for the first time, the great change in the man flashed itself into her, and her heart stood still and her brain “Henry!” she cried, “My Henry, you are tired!” He stooped wonderingly clos er to her. “Dearest, no!” She gazed with sickening dread up into his face. “Ah, yes, you are tired and sad. Mr. Fellowes has been telling me so much, making things clear, and—and—yes, you are older, and I never saw it until this instant.” “My love, I am #ell!” he said, caressing her softly. “It is I who have done this, Henry”—she silenced his pro test with a soft imperious mo tion—“they saw it weeks ago; I am a bad wife now, as I have been a bad mother—ah, that is very sad!” She laid her head dowfi on their clasped hands and with a little shudder broke into soft sobbing. "You are a most true, most noble wife,” he whispered, “my helpmeet in all things!” “I have gone away and neg lected yon, and you have grown older.” “Come home, my best beloved, come home and rest.” “If I only could,” she said wistfully, “but dear, I am rest less, I cannot stay still. “After Gwen went away,” she continued softly, with bent head, as they pacea slowly up the drive, “my heart seemed to fill with restless growth, new thoughts and feelings were for ever astir in me, I could not rest; old feeiings that should have had their budding and birth long ago only then awoke, and beset me with sweet pain.” She stopped and leaned up against him. “I have never been able to tell you all this be fore, except indirectly. Ah, Hemy, such strange new thoughts torture and soothe me, they war with one another con tinually mid there is not one drop of sweetness that has not two drops of bitterness to temper withal. “Let’s walk on, dearest, you are cold.—I have such strange yearnings, Henry, for baby touches and baby kisses, I, who have never felt them for my own, have to seek them among babies not of my flesh and blood. I have to find the pale ghosts of them amongst my lost children’s little clothes.” “My love, not lost.” “Yes, Henry, lost, more than if the grave had closed over them; those forfeited things do not return. I have a mother’s heart now when I no longer need it,” she said, with a wan smile, “and I know—ah, I know so many things, such pitiful things. The other day a tiny baby grasped at my breast and tried to nestle its head there—to suck my breast, Henry,—it was worse than death, for I knew I hail lost the best sweetness of life.” “My love, my love, those things are not lost,” cried her husband and then with sudden and surprising astuteness, he added, “there will be Gwen’s children.” She clutched his hand in a sudden tremor of excitement. “Ah, and then—then, too, Gwen might understand—now —” she coughed softly and broke off. “But, Henry, I have you, we will go together as we used to do: perhaps work, regular work, may make me feel better.” “My love,” he cried eagerly, “1 am certain it is just the thing you want, the very thing ” “Perhaps,” she said sadly, “perhaps it is.” [to be continued.] S»iid YE t R. the mmi MTAl and Dixie Farmer. The Oreat Farm, Indusirial and Sleek Journal of Hie Soulli. ONE YEAR FOR fl. Sample copies and premium list will be mailed FREE on application to The Cultivator Publishing Co-, Box 416, Atlanta. Ga. 8TA TS OF 80 UTH CA HO LIN A. County of Darlington. COURT OF COMMON PLKA8. L. H. Gilmore, PlaintllT, against G. W. Hopkins and Charles Marthinson, Defendants. Copy Summons. For Relief. (Complaint not Served.) To The Defendants G. W. Hopkins ' fcaiu Charles Marthinson: You are hereby summoned and re quired to answer tne Complaint in this action, which will be tllYf! ,T > the office of the Clerk of the Court o> Common Pleas, for the said County, and to serve a copy of your answer to the complaint on the subscribers at their offices at Darlington C. H., 8. C., within twenty days after the service hereof, exclusive of the day of such service; and if you fail to answer the complaint within the time aforesaid, the plaintiff in this action will apply to the Court for the relief demanded in the complaint. Dated September, 10th., A. D 1894. NETTLES & NETTLES, Plaintiff's Attorney. To The Defendant G. W. Hopkins: Take notice, that the complaint in the above entitled action is filed in the office the Clerk of the Court of Common Pleas. NETTLES & NETTLES. Plaintiff's Attorney. ROOFING SLATES. TjtLEMINQ CEMENT AND BRICK COMPANY. MASONS’ SUPPLIES, 276 East Bay, CHARLESTON, S. C. Importers of 1 eMEISH T IP O 33, T L A.3ST3D | CEMENT | and dealers in Eastern and Southern Rock Lime, Rosendale Cement, N. Y. Plaster Paris, Hair, Laths, Shingles, Tiles, Bricks, Fire Clay and all Building Mater ial. ALL SIZES T. C. PIPE. BEST FULL SIZE FIRE BRIOK. Tklkpronk 201. ROOFING SLATES. Why Is It? That the most successful busi ness men are the strongest believers in Life Insurance ? I That they are,is attested by the following letter from a well ' known business man who held a Tontine Policy in the Eauitable Life POWXLL * SNIDER. STArkt amo Famcy Gaocaam, ■ (AIM AMO rLOCB. Akhkvillk, N. G. Jan. IS, ISM. Ma. W J. RoddSy, Rock HU1, a G Deah Bk : I have aenpud the cash valM of 107 Tontine Poller In Iba ‘ Equitable," wbieb matured Jan M. ISM. I deatra to aar that 1 am verr well pleaaed with tbe remulu aa aa evidence of which I have applied tor mom Respectfully, W. F gxibca If yon are interested send your age and let us give you figures on a Tontine Policy. Address W. J. RODDEY, Manager, Department of CaroHoas, Rock hill. S. C. XXARTSVILLE RAILROAD. ** June 8, 1894. MIXED TRAIN Leave Hartsville 4.30 a m Jovaim 4.4ft a m Floyd's ft.05 a ut Darlington 5.2ft aiu Palmetto 5.40 a in Arrive Florence 6.00 a m Leave Florence 7.35 p m Palmetto 7.50 p m Darlington 8.20 p m Floyds 8.85 p m Jovanu 8.55 p iu Hartsville 9.10 pm J F. DIVINE. Gen. Supt. CHARLESTON, SUMTER AND NORTHERN RAILROAD CHARLES E. KIMBALL Receiver. In Effect Jan. 16, 1804. CAN be CURED; — W. wta SEND FREE by ■ — wal a kM«a TRIAL BOTTLEj Sea. StamaadCtmaty, ami A*a plainly. ^^SSStiSS&tSii^ NORTH. SOUTH. 9 8 P.M. P.M. Lv 4.t 0 Charleston 2.80 Ar 5.20 Preguall’s 1.10 7.25 Sumter 11.02 8.87 Darlington 0.50 9 20 Heunettsville 9.00 0.52 Gibson 8.37 Ar 10.20 Hamlet 8.10 Lv P.M A.M. No. 9 connects at Hamlet with 8. A. L. Vestibule train for Raleigh, Rich mond. Washington. Baltimore, Phil adelphia and New York. No 8 connects witli 8. A. L. Vesti bule train/rum above named iioiuts. Trains run solid to and from Charles ton. C. MILLARD, Superintendent. C & D. and C. & S. RAILROADS, a In effect June 3, 1804. MIXED TRAIN Leave Wadesltoro 8.00 p m Bennett’s 2.25 p m Morveu’s 2.40 p m McFarland 2 55 pm Cheraw 8.45 p in Cash's 4.10 pm Society Hill 4.40 p in •ove's 5.10 pm Floyd’s 5.80 pm Darlington 6.05 p m Palmetto 6.20 p m Arrive Florence 6.45 p m Leave Florence 7.85 a m Palmetto 8.00 a m Darlington 8.85 a m Floyd’s - 2.00 am Dove’s 0 15 a m Society Hill 0 45 a in Cash's 10.15 a m Cheraw. 11.00 a m McFarland 11.40 am Morven’s 11.55 am Bennett's 12.10 a in Arrive Wadesboro 12.80 a in Local Freight. Leave Darlington 4 10 p m Palmetto 4.42 p m Arrive Florence 5.00 p m Leave Florence 8.80 a m Palmetto. .'.. ;r.-w ■ 8.50 IU Arrive Darlington !..' S1-Q5 a m A. F. RAVENEL, President. ' N ortheastern railroad. In effect June 8, 1894. SOUTH BOUND. No. 85. Leave Florence 8.10 a m Lanes 4.05 a m Arrive Charleston 0.10 s m No. 28. Leave Florence 7.45 p m Kingstree 0.02 p m Idiues y.23 p m Arrive Charleston 11.18 p w No. 58. Leave Lanes 7.10 p m Arrive Charleston 8.40 p m NORTH BOUND. No. 78. Leave Charleston 8.36 a m Lanes 6.40 a m Kingstree 6 00 a in Arrive Florence 7.10 a ut No. 32. Leave Charleston 8.30 p m Lanes 6.38 p in Kingstree 5.57 p ta Arrive Florence 7.05 p in No. 52. Leave Charleston 7.15 am Arrive Lanes 8.45 » m No. 52 runs through to Columbia via Central R. R. of S. C. Train Nos. 78 and 14 runs via Wilson and Fayetteville—Short Line—and makes close connection for all points North. J. F. DIVINE. Gen. Supt. fMTILMINGTON, COLUMBIA * FT AUGUSTA RALROAD. In effect June 8, 1894. SOUTH BOUND. _ „ No. 55. Leave Wilmington 8.40 pm Marion 6.31 p u Arrive Florence 7.10 p m No. 50. Leave Florence 7.85 p m Sumter 8.46 pm Leave Sumter 8.48 p m Arrive Columbia 10.10 p m No. 58. Leave Florence 8.15 a m Arrive Sumter 4 21 a m No. 52. Leave Sumter lo.oo a m Arrive Columbia 11.20 am No. 52 runs through from Charles ton via Central Railroad; leaving Lanes 8.48 a m, Manning 9 25 a m. NORTH BOUND. . „ No. 51. Leave Columblc 4.8O a m Sumter.... ,.»«. « . 5.58 a m Arrive Florence ... . 7.10 a m r No - M - Leave Florence 7.40 a m Marion 8.28 a m Arrive Wilmington 11.10 am _ No. 68. Leave Columbia 4.20 p m Arrive Sumter 5.50 p m No. 59. Leave Columbia Sumter 5.55 p m Arrive Florence 7.05 p m No. 58 runs tbiouKu «u onarleston via central Railroad, arriving Man ning 6.28 p m Lanes 7.06 p a, charleston8.40 pm. Trains on ikatictu-ster and Augusta B. R - , leave Florence daily except Sun day, 8.15 a. m., arrive Denmark 6.18 a. m. Returning leave Denmark 3.57 p. m., arrive Florence 7.05 p. m. Trains on Wilmington, Chadboura and Conway Railroad leave Chad- bourn at 10.10 a m, arrive at Conway 12.80 p m, returuingleave Conway at 3:00 p. m., arrive Chadboant 4:60 p. m. Leave Chadboura 5.85 p m arrive at Hub 6 20 p. m. Re turning leave Hub 8.15 a m, arrive at Chadboura 9.00 a m. Dally exopet Sunday. JOHN F. DIVINE, Genl BmpY, t Tinwiwnr iiir nimMw^nrni -niinmni finwii num h ~ »iii ■ .