Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 24, Number 28, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 6 January 1894 — Page 2

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We passed under the bridge, snorting the funnel was lowered, and then the suioke blew away something seemed to •mite my heart like the blow of a great hammer, for, looking back, I saw the blinds of all the windows were drawn down. "Great heaven, Taras is dead!" That was my first thought, and then, divining the truth, I said to myself, "The czar has Conquered."

But this end of all happiness was too terrible to 1h» accepted while any spark if doubt remained, and 1 tried to cheat myself with hopes—as if mere belief could alter the course of inevitable fate, or hope undo what was done. I tried to explain the drawn blinds by supposing a less dreadful calamity. Poor old Mere Lucas was gone. "Yes, yes," I said to myself, grasping at this possibility, "Mere Lucas is dead, poor soul!"

Leaving the boat at Vauxhall pier, I hurried along Millbank, repeating this phrase •gain and again like a charm, and crossing Lambeth bridge drew near the old house, •till striving to believe that my eyes had deoelved me, yet faint with dread.

I could go no farther than the corner opposite the house. Its aspect of desolation paralysed my limbs and forced me to cling to the wall for support. There was no sign •t life In it. The shutters of the living room were closed the blinds of the wintows above drawn. The bulls Taras gave IB* to plant In the boxes on my window •ills the last week I was with him had flowered and faded. The withered blooms hang over the edge. Swan the foliage had drooped for want of attention. At the corner of Ferry street one of the carmen from the pottery was packing jars in his van. Heedless of the risk 1 ran—for there seemed bo longer any need of disguise—I tottered across the road, and in a voice made weak and tremulous by emotion I asked him if he oould tell me where Mme. Lucas lived. "Mme. Lucas," he responded carelessly, still packing away the jar*. "Oh, she's cone away. She used to live in the house down there as is shut up now. She's been gone ever since Christmas." "Does—does any one live there nowt** I faltered. "No. Look here, missis," he added, straightening himself and scratching his head, "you're upset my counting along of your questions. Here, Bill Wright," he called to a young man who was arranging 'here's a party

COPYRIGHT, 169*3: BY CAM LL 2

A nameless girl waif on the London wharves overhears a plot between Putty, the landlord of Mariner's Joy, a confederate named Drigo and a stranger known as Taras, to help some deserters escape from a ship. CHAPTER II—The deserters arrive, a scuffle ensues in the barroom of the Joy, and Taras disappears. IIJ and IV-After a vain hunt lor Taras the waif is led by a strange sound loacellar beneath the bar. Following the clew, she finds

I couldn't help it. It was stronger than I, as the French say—that yearning to be near Taras, to pass the bouse in which he lived—tlie house with which the dearest, the happiest, associations of my life were connected, and after resisting the temptation as long as I could, wandering about the city with the endeavor to distract my thoughts by looking in the shops, I took a turning down to the river, and at the first station stepped on board a Chelsea steamer. "Is it likely," I asked myself, "that I shall be seen by any one I know?" Nevertheless it was the hope of seeing Taras, if but afar off, that led me into this imprudence, for, despite my disguise, I knew that I was doing wrong—that I was jeopardizing the escape of Gordon, the safety of Taras himself—by exposing myself even to the remote chance of discovery. Most of the people on board looked like Lam-S bcth folk. A gentleman- was waiting on the Temple pier w?lo, in the distance, looked like Kavnnagh.

I shivered with suppressed excitement as we drew nearer and nearer to the spot in which all my fondest hopes were centered. My heart beat wildly as I caught sight of the kilns beyond Westminster, my head swam, and every object grew dim and indistinct before my eyes as the boat crossed toward Lambeth pier.

Prudence told me that here at least 1 ought to go lii'lmv or screen myself, for every man on tin- pier knew me well by sight. But I was deaf to every voice, blind to every danger. I even raised my veil that I might bolter scan the faces of the passengers upon the pier we were Hearing. Oh, if Taras might only be among them! If he would come on board, where I might feel his presence! There were three or four familiar faces close to me when we ran alongside, but not his. I stood up and strained my eyes us the late passengers ran down the footbridge. He was not among them, and that vain hope was gone. But there was still the chance of seeing him at the window when the bridge was passed and I could get an unobstructed view of the house.

OUT OF THE JAWS OF DEATH BY FRANK BARRETT COPYRIGHT 1893 BY CASSELL & CO AND PUBLISHED By SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT SYaJOI'SIS 1 "I only wanted to know where I could find her," I said timidly. "She's living now down in Surrey along with Mr. Taras," said William Wright. "He is not dead?" I gasped. "I haven't heard of his dying, mum, though I know he was very bad before he left."

Taras imprisoned and refeasps

him through means of an old robber tunuel from the cellar to the wharf. V—Putty and Drigo discover the escape and cut off the waif in the tunnel, but she takes terrible revenge on them and is befriended by Taras VI, VII, VIII—The waif rnn« away and attempts suicide. Taras finds her lu a police cell and takes her to his own home under the care of Mere Lucas, his housekeeper. There she begins a new life as Aura. IX. and XI—Aura is dressed for her new station in Taras' household and makes the acquaint ance of Major Kavanagh, a bosom friend of Taras, who is a Russian nihilist. XII, XIII and XIV—Taras is an artist making plaster groups to portray the tyianny of the czar. Aura develops by dint of hard study intola companion of the artist refugee. XV, XVI and XVII—Love emotions are awakened in Aura for Taras. A cast representing downtrodden Russia is mysteriously destroyed in Taras' wbrkshop. At a hint from Kavanagh Mere Lucas is suspected, and Aura becomes a zealous watchdog over the person of her benefactor. XVIII, XIX and XX—While jfhadowing Taras to protect him Aura is Shadowed by Drigo. She gives him the slip and rescues Taras from abduction br Kav anagh. XXI, XXII and XXIII—Kavanagh explains that he is engaged in a deep scheme to save Taras from assassination by minions dt the czar. By help of Auraa mutual friend of all concerned, George Gordon, who is Tarns' double, Is to bcHbdncted and delivered to the czar's agents. XYIV and XXV—Kudersdorf of the Russian secret police reaches London to silence Taras. Gordon Is a constant caller at Tara's house, and his trysts with Aura have the color of a love attachment. The remaining chapters tell how Gordon and Aura are carried to Russia and started on the read to Siberia. Aura escapes, returns to London,-sepures Gordon's escape and unmasks Kavanagh, who loves Gordon's affianced and is in the pay of theczar. He meets a terrible fate, and Aura marries Taras, otherwise I'rlnce Pirgensky.

CHAP'lER XXXIX. T/r: MADNESS OF KEAIt.

more jars against the trail, uuns impossible. want* to know something about Mme. Da- triad to recollect the phrases I hadw-

My heart leaped at this. Oh, If Taras were only ill there was yet hope! "Can you tell me where I can find him— Mme. Lucas, I mean?" "I know it's Woking way where they live now. Betterford I think's the name of the place, but I can't be sure." "Here," said the carman, "run round to the hoffice, old lady, and ask for Mr. Kavanagh. He knows. Hand us up them quarts, Bill."

At that name I recognized the rashness of my folly, albeit neither the carman nor William Wright had seen through my disguise—the reckless madness into which my fear had led me. Nevertheless within an hour I was on my way to Betterford.

CHAPTER XL. A STRANGE DISCOVERY.

It was dark when I reached Woking. The ticket collector at the station told me that I had to go three good miles. He had heard there were new people at Betterford Grange, but didn't know their names, though he was told they were foreigners. The Grange was this side of the village and the first house after passing the "Wheatsheaf," which was dbout half way, and I couldn't miss it, as it stood just on the edge of the common as you come through the fir woods. With this information I left him, and following his direction came at last upon the open common, and there, standing back from the road, was the Grange—its twisted chimneys and many gables thrown into relief by a background of moonlit cloud.

The frout faced the common. Looking through the iron gates up the yew bordered carriage drive I saw a light on the ldwer floor. I felt that Taras was thej-e. Clinging to the bars of the gate, I gazed -at the light with such joy as I think they must feel who reach a shrine after long and weary pilgrimage.

I gave myself up to sentiment and suffered my emotions to have unrestrained play. Solitude, the stillness of the night, the slowly creeping clouds that mounted the heavens, th§ feeling of unattained and yet unattainable happiness—all conduced to this devotional ecstasy. Taras was playing the viola in that room. A low, sad sound reached my ear. It might have been celestial music, it was so pathetically beautiful. I listened in awe, not knowing that Taras played, and the sound rose like a cry of despair, filling my heart with such woe that I couldj bear it no longer and turned away.

I found lodging that night at the "Wheatsheaf." Early in the morning I left the inn to re trim to London. "It's a little better than two miles to the station," said the landlord, "but you will catch the up train nicely if you step out a bit brisklike."

Anxious now to get back and learn the result of the solicitor's application to Mr. Lazarus, I ran, as soon as I turned the bend of the ro:id, that I might not miss the train. But presently the sound of wheels behind obliged me to change my pace to one more in keeping with the character of a gray headed woman. The sound drew nearer and uearfer a couple of shaggy dogs raced by me, and then, as I turned my head, the carriage rattled past. It was an open carriage a gentleman and a young lady sat on the back seat. She was on the further side, and speaking to him her face was toward me. his inclined toward her in a listening attitude. They did not notice me—thesmileon their faces was unchanged —bjut at the sight of them I stopped as if lightning from the heavens had shot down and struck me, for in that momentary glance I recognized both. He was Taras— Bhe Judith 1 I stood by a roadside watching the receding carriage in blank dismay, till the curve of the road hid it from my. sight.

What did it mean? 1 asked myself in a frenzy of jealous terror. Why was Judith by his side, smiling in his face? Had she taken my place, having lost Gordon Had Taras given up all expectation of my return and made her his companion in my stead? Had he gone still further than that and made her his wife? That was the more probable supposition. Judith was not a homeless, friendless waif, to whom such a position could be given as the sole escape from destruction. With the conventional views of her class, she would consent to live under his roof only as his wife. Where were they going now in that carriage? To the station undoubtedly, and thence to London. I might see him again at the station if I hurried. But I did not stir from the spot. The thought of seeing him again with her cut my heart like a sharp knife. I felt it would be better for me if I never saw him again. Better for him too.

Suddenly it occurred to me that if Taras and Judith were gone to London Mere Lu-' caswould be alone. I might call upon her and make inquiries, taking care to conceal my identity and my purpose in case there might yet be necessity for concealment.

The iron gates were unfastened. I passed through and walked up the broad path to the house. There was no need to assume the infirmity of age—my steps faltered with quaking fear, my failing courage gave me scarcely the strength to ring the bell when I reached the house. Through the glazed doors I saw Mere Lucas coming across the hall in response to my feeble summons With ponderous step, her white cap with the strings tied in a broad bow under her double chin first catching my eye. She opened the door and greeted me with a serious inclination of the head, her full lips pursed np and a slight expression of mistrust upon her face as she took in my shrinking attitude and shabby appearance.

My back was to the light. She could not recognize me, and it was only natural that she should receive me in that manner, but the strangeness of it frightened me—I was ao used to think of her beaming with kindness and genial warmth. Everything had changed so in these past few months that a return to the happy conditions of old

hearsed for the occasion coming along, but my memory played me false, and after stammering a few incoherent words in French and English I abandoned the attempt to disguise myself in desperation and cried in a broken voice: "Oh, Mere Lucas, don't you remember me?"

She started—her lips fell—she turned me quickly to the light and exclaimed: "Mon Dieul 1J has come to this. You have returned?" ||J

For a minute astonishment bewildered her the muscles of her face were agitated by conflicting emotions then, recovering her self possession, she composed her features and with severe gravity told me that monsieur was not at home. "I know he is not," I said. "I have seen him. He passed me in the road. I did not speak to him. I did not wish him to kDow me." "One can understand that," she replied significantly. "Has madame comedo speak to me?" "Yes, yes. Mere Lucas," I faltered piteously.

Her coolness and formality perplexed ma I could not understand why she called me madame now that I had revealed myself. My embarrassment touched the good old woman, and she broke the painful silence. "Monsieur is quite well?" €he asked, with hesitation in her voice. "Monsieur?" I echoed interrogatively. "M. Gordon." "Yes, but it is a long time since I left him, and I have traveled a long, long way to come here, and I find everything changed and altered, and—and—" impulsively giving way to my feelings, I sobbed—"and I am wretched and unhappy."

I rose and went toward her, and she, springing up, broke though the barrier of reserve and clasped me in her arms, shedding tears of affectionate sympathy. "Ah, my poor dear," she whimpered, "we are wretched and unhappy, all of us, and this is no time to bear grudges, one against the other. My heart melted the moment you told me who you were, for I know how cruelly you must have suffered to come down to this. But I felt that I ought not to forgive you all at once for deceivingusas you did, and look you it seemed as if you had no feeling-for any of us not to send one word to us in our trouble. No matter. That is all past, and we will forget it as best we can. There, there," said she, drawing me down on a chair close by her side and nursing my hand on her knee, "we are friends again, but you must not expect me to feel just the s&me toward you as if nothing had happened." Then, still surveying me with pitying astonishment, she said, "And is it true, my poor soul, that your hair has turned gray through all these hardships?" "No—that is false hair. I don't want any one to know me." "No, no, of course not." "I didn't intend to let/you know me, but I could not help it." "I promise you I will tell no one. No one shall hear a word of this from me, no, not even my poor master, and for a very good reason—it would break his heart to know

"Oh, Mere Lucas,

don't

you remember

me?"

that his little friend, as he used to call you, had come down so low. What awreckl What a ruinl And tfb think that I am to blame for it alii" "You?" "Certainly. Didn't I do all in my power to throw you together? Did I ever let him go up to see M. Taras before he had gone into the front room to pay his respects to you? Didn't I flatter myself from the very first that he would make you his wife in the end?" "He, who?" I asked in bewilderment. "Why, that.M. Gordon, to be sure. Whom else could I mean?"

I saw at last what was in Mere Lucas' mind, and the discovery took my breath away. "And does Taras believe also that we eloped in that way—Mr. Gordon and I?"

Mere Lucas shrugged 'her shoulders, spread out her hands, subdued an involuntary chuckle that shook her abundant person, and then, with becoming gravity, replied: "Mon Dieul what else could he believe?" "Taras thinks I left him to do that?" I murmured incredulously.

I fancy Mere Lucas thought I was now going a little too far, for she said in atone of expostulation: "Be reasonable, now it's all over, madame. You must not expect too much. To be sure, my dear master has never

IPISKE^f-'

TERRE HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING MAIL, JANUARY 6, 1894.

utr

tered a word that betrayed the slightest suspicion of your fault, but what could he think? You and M. Gordon disappear the same evening without leaving a word behind you, and all that we ever hear of you afterward is that M. Gordon drew all his money out of the bank the day after your flight! For a week before he came to see you everyday, and your behavior was so odd as even to perplex me. Yon goout together one evening, and the nextday yon are so ill that anyone could see something serious had happened—that some final arrangement had been made and some great event was about to take place. Come, come, madam! And how can one doubt what had happened when everything is done so secretly, and no word of excuse or pretense is sent to give things a respectable appearance after ward, look you?"

CHAPTER XLL *. "1 A PAST EVENTS.

should certainly have blurted out the whole truth to clear myself and Gordon from this monstrous imputation, but that while I was pausing for the words to come Mere Lucas said: "One may live to be 60 and yet for it, look you. An old woman may mistake the good for the bad and the bad for the good like an inexperienced child. Look, for example, how shamefully I misjudged that good M. Kavanagh."

Agnin that name brought me to my

"Do you see Mr. Kavanagh often?" I asked. "Oh, there's1 not a week passes but he comes down to spend a day or two with us. I don't know what we should do without him in our misfortune."

I looked around, at a loss to know what misfortune she alluded to. "It seems very pleasant here," I ventured to observe. "Pleasant is not the word for it, my dear, "it's a paradise," she said in a most melancholy tone. "I should like you to see the rooms. They are beautiful, and it is no trouble to keep them nice, for here there is no dust, no smoke, no smuts, and the linen keeps its color and does not need washing every day. And the gardenl it is a real picture already with spring flowers. And there are birds in every bush. That is one of the reasons ^why M.-Kavanagh bought it." "Mr. Kavanagh bought it!'* I said in pdr plexity. "He bought it for my poor master, be cause, look you"—the old woman paused, her thick lips quivered, and she put her apron to her eyes and sobbed—"because lie said he must go where he could hear birds."

I was touched by the old woman's grief, though still at a loss to understand the cause of it. "And there's a kitchen garden," shepursued somewhat inconsequently. "The young radishes are ready for the table. To look at them gives one an appetite."

She dried her eyes, but in the same mournful voice continued: "A poultry yard, too, and the fowls are laying more eggs than I know what to do with—delicious eggs, with white like a curd. You saw the carriage?" "Yes." "M. Kavanagh found that for us also, and Johnson, the driver, a most obliging man, who manages the garden and is always willing to do anything for me."

She heaved a quivering sigh and shook her head mournfully. "Perhaps you don't care for a country life?" I suggested. "Mon Dieul I would never leave it for an hour if I could help it." "Do you find the house too large? Is there more than you can do?" "Not a bit. The house is large, to be sure, but we only occupy part of it yet awhile. M. Kavanagh said we must have plenty of rooms for friends when they come to see us, but up to now the' master has not had the wish to invite many people here. It is enough for him to see M. Kavanagh now and then and to have Miss Judith to wa'k with him and tapthepianoin theevening." "Miss Judithl" They were not married then. But my jealousy leaped into flame again as I learned thjit Taras was satisfied with her society alone, and an envious pang shot through me to know that she had found a means of pleasing him that was beyond me. "Does she play well?" I asked hoarsely.

Mere Lucas' lip twitched again. "I can't tell you," she said. "When they begin to play music, I go up to my room. It is more than I can bear." "Is she always here?" I asked. "She has been here ever since Christmas, and that was all through M. Kavanagh, for, you see, she was a governess at his sister's, and he persuaded her to let Miss Judith come, seeing that the master could not do without some one. She has gone up to London today." "I saw her." "There are pigeons, too," Mere Lucas proceeded after a moment's somber reflection. "I hedSrd young ones squeaking up In the hayloft a week ago. I must ask Mr. Johnson to fetch them down for me when they're big enough for the spit. Yes, there is everything the imagination can desire here but, mon Dieu, what are all these things worth if one hasn't the heart to enjoy them?" "But," I urged in perplexity, "why haven't you the heart?" "Because it is living—because it has feeling in it," she replied fiercely. Then, seeing by my face that it was not want of feeling that made me dull, she said: "You know what has happened to the master?" "I know nothing. I came here to learn what has passed since I went away-" "You saw him this morning?" "For a moment. He was smiling, 1 thought." "What, my poor dearl You have heard nothing? It was in the papers." "I have not seen any papers. I have been—a long way from England." "Forgive me," she said earnestly, taking both my hands and looking with pity in my face, "forgive me. I thought you must know, and that your heart had grown hard and selfish, benumbed with its own pain. Oh, my dear friend, if it is still sensible to the misfortunes of others, you have a terrible grief to bear. From my soul I pity you." "Tell me all," 1 entreated. "Mon Dieul You shake like a leaf now. How can I soften the blow? What can 1 say to give you courage? How can I begin?" "Tell me all," I repeated. "Begin from the day I went away." "Our troubles began then, to be sure. I was surprised when I took in the breakfast that morning to find the master sitting alone. 'I am afraid mademoiselle feels unwell this morning,' said he. 'She was ill yesterday, and last night she did not come down to wish us "good night." See if she would like a cup of tea in her room.' Then I went up, and finding your room empty and the bed unused I called the master, feeling thdt he must Bee this with his own eyes to believe it. He looked very grave, but less astonished than I expected. He only asked if I could tell whether any of your dresses was missing. I found that your hat and jacket were gone. That shows that she has gone out,' said the master. 'We shall know more when she returns.' He said that to put an end to my questions and went back to his breakfast as though It was quite natural you should go out and slay away all night. But when I cleared the things away I saw that he had not eaten anything. "He was working in his atelier when Mr. Kavanagh came that was in the afternoon. 'Good morning, madame,' says he, as I open the door is M. Gordon here?' •No, monsieur he has not been here for two days, and that is droll, because he has lately been in the habit of calling regularly to see mademoiselle every morning.' 'Dear mef says he 'this is curious for example, I went to his rooms this morning by appointment and found that he went away last night and has not returned. He is not at his club, and, in fact, I cannot find him anywhere.' 'Mon Dieul' this is extraordinary,' says I, 'for mademoiselle went away last night and has not yet returned.' 'At what hour?' *H must have been before you left.' 'How very strange!' says he. 'Why, the hall porter at the chambers says that a yonnx lady came to see Mr. Gordon Iftjtfc night about that time, and from his description it might have been mademoiselle. But, of course, it couldn't have been her, for they went out together arm in arm, and M. Gordon had a large portmanteau with him.'"

"A pormanteau!" 1 exclaimed. "The portmanteau in which he took away many things that belonged to Trim, for when, his rooms were searched they were found all in disorder from the hasty preparations he had made for a long journey. But I have no need to tell you that." "No, no—I don't want to hear anything about myself. Tell me about Taras. "f "Ah, my poor masterl That killed "the joy in his heart, for look you, he loved you more, than you could have believed—more than I knew, perhaps more than he knew himself. He was no longer merry and cheerful as he had been he did not sing when he came from his atelier. And the house was as if some one lay dead in it. It melted one's heart to see him sitting alone at the table. He would have your cover laid, and we spoke as if you were coming back soon. But for my part I felt that there was more unhappiness to come—that Providence had sent this warning to pre pare us for still greater calamity. That was something more than superstition and the fancy of an old women. Before the end of the month a second warning came. The master's work was destroyed for a second time." "The group of statuary?" "Yes—the beautiful group that he had toiled at so long and patiently. It was in the kiln. The master saw the fires lit and staid in the pottery till past midnight watching the burning. I was sitting up for he had eaten no dinner, and 1 had a hot supper to serve. Well, mon Dieu! he had scarcely seated himself at the table when we heard a terrible crash, and a boy run ning in from the pottery cried out that the kiln had fallen in." "Had it fallen in by accident?" "No, for when the ruins were cleared away traces of dynamite were fouhcl. When M. Kavanagh saw it, he said: 'The mark of the czar's hand is here. This has been done by the Russian police.' 'They have not beaten me yet,' replied my poor master, and that very day he began to model the group again. Then that good M. Kavanagh prayed him to abandon the attempt, or at least to turn his efforts in Bome new direction, lest worst misfortunes should follow. I beard him say one day 'These warnings are not to be mistaken. Next time these agents of the czar—these hired assassins—may be ordered to destroy not your work, but you.' 'Yes, that may be,' answered the master. 'If 1 do not yield, the czar will have me killed perhaps, but the disgrace shall be on his side, not on mine.' And be shook his head to every argu

Continued on Third Page.

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Railroad Time Tables.

Trains marked thus (P) denote Parlor Cars attached. Trains marked thus (8) denote .sleeping Cars attached daily. Trains ro«wh»d thus" (B) denote Buffet Cars attached. Trains marked thus run daily. All other trains run daily, Sundays excepted.

^-A-iisnD-A-Xii-A. minsriE.

MAIN LINE.

LKAVK FOB THE WEST.

No. 7 Western Ax^fV) No. 5 St. Louis Mail No. 1 Fast Line* (P) No. 21 St. Louis Ex* (D&V) No. 13 Eff. Acc ... No. 11 Fast Mall*

1.40 a: 10.11 a

10.11 a 2.20 8.10 4.05 9.04

LEAVE FOB THE KAST.

No. 12.Cincinnati Express* (S) No. New York Express (8feV). No. 4 Mail and Accommodation No. 20 Atlantic Express (DP&V). No. 8 Fast Line No. 2 Indianapolis Acc

1.30 am 2.20 am 7.16 a 12.47 2.20 pm 5.05

ABllIVK FKOM THE EAST.

No. 7 Western Express (V) No. 6 St. Louis Mail* No. 1 Fast Line (P) No. 21 St. Louis Ex* (D&V) No. S Mail and Accommodation No. 11 Fast Mail

1,25 am 10.05 am 2.05 pm 8.05 6.45 0.00

ABRIVE FROM THE WEST.

No. 12 Cincinnati Express (S) No. 6 New 1ikrk Express (S«V). No. 14 Effingham Ac No. 20 Atlantic Express (P&V). No. 8 Fast Line No. 2 Indianapolis Acc

1.20 a 2.10 a 0.30 am 12.42 2.05 5.00

T. H. & L. DIVISION.

LEAVE FOB THE NOBTH.

No. 52 South Bend Mall 6.20 am No. 54 South Bend Express 4.00 ABRIVE FROM THE NORTH. No. 51 Terre Haute Express 11.45 am No. 53 South Bend Mail 7.30 pm

PEORIA DIVISION.

ARRIVE FROM NORTHWEST.

No. 78 Pass Ex 11-00 am No. 70 Pass Mail & Ex 7.00 pm LEAVE FOB NORTHWEST. No. 75 Pass Mail fe Ex No. 77 Pass Ex 3.25 pm

ZED.

Sc

T. IKE-

ABBIVE FROM SOUTH.

No. 6 No. 2 No. 60 No. 4 No. 8

Nash & C. Lim* (V) 4.30 a T. H. S»|East Ex* 11.50 a Accommodation* 5.00 Ch & Ind Ex* (8 & P) 10.50 World's Fair Special* 4Jpm

LEAVE FOB SOUTH.

No. 8 No. 7 No. 1 No. 5

Ch & Ev Ex* (8&P) 5.10 a World's Fair Special* 11-56 am Ev & Ind Mail 3.15 Ch&NLlm* 10.00 pm

IE. &c X.

ARRIVE FKOM SOUTH.

No. 48 Worth Mixed 11.00 am No. 82 Mail A Ex 4.20 pm LEAVE FOB SOUTH. No. 88 Mail & Ex 8Jam No. 49 Worth'n Mixed 3.20

O. &c 33. X.

ARRIVE FROM NOBTH.

No. 3 Ch A Fash Ex*(S) S.KIam No. 7 Nashville Special* (P&B). .8.00 No. 1 Ch & Ev Ex No. 5 & N Lim (DAV) 10.00

LEAVE FOB NORTH.

No. 6 & N Lim (D&V) 4.50 am No. 2 & Ch Ex 12.10 No. 8 Chicago Special* (PAB) 8.20 pm No. 4 Nash A Ex*(8) 11.15 pm

C- O. C. & I.-BIG

GOING EAST

No. 10 Boston AN Ex* LgOam No. 2 Cleveland Acc 7.25 am No. 18 Southwestern limited*.... 1.01 No. 8 Mail train* 3.56 pm

GOING WEST.

No. 7 St. Louis E 4 5 a No. 17 Limited* l-4o No. 8 Accommodation 7.4S pm, No. 9 Mall Train* 10.00 a r.

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*4