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A RECEIPT IN FULL. j The tins had all been scoured until ' she. could see her face, or grotesque > caricatures of her fa e, in each and every one of them; the window-panes * polished until they sparkled, or had ’ sparkled—for it was now twilight —in ? the bright June sunshine: the silver burnished until neither spot nor speck marred its mild luster; the loaves of . bread baked until each crispy crust took on the right shade of tempting brown; and Molly was scrubbing the only unscrubbed corner of the kitchen ’ when Mi-s Cameron’s deep, harsh, pre- 1 cise voice came to her from the dining- t room: “Marv, are vou not through < yet?” “Almost, ma'am,” answered Molly. “I think it is high lime you were 1 quite,” declared the voice. “You must 1 make haste. Wo are going to the lect ure this evening, Miss (ieorgettc and I; and as Mr. Malcolm also wishes to go out, we will be obliged to lock up the house. Therefore it is necessary that you should leave as soon as possible.’! “Yes, ma’am,” said Molly, meekly, and finished her scrubbing, with her tears falling fast and thick. Poor little girl! she had tried so hard to please her mistresses, or rather her mistress -for Miss Georgette was but a reflection of her elder sister—and her efforts had been met with a grim silence that be tokened a begrudged satisfaction, until the last few weeks; that is, in fact, until Mr. George Malcom came there. Mr. Malcolm was a sort of step-brother to the Misses Cameron (his father, a widower, with two boys, had married theiWmotlicr, a widow, with two girls), and they inheriting nothing in the way of property from their own father, he generously made them an allowance from the moderate fortune left him by his. Generously and forgivingly for they had not rendered a tithe of the respect, to say nothing of affection, which was his due, tothoirkind hearted and indulgent step-father, choosing to look upon their mother’s second mar riage as an insult to the memory of the parent whose not-at-all-amiable char acteristics had been his only legacy to them. The cottage in which they lived, situ ated in the prettiest part of Meadowvillc (the furniture therein being their own, t he bequestof a maternal grandmother), belonged to Mr. George; anil here he had come in search of solitude and quiet, for the first time in twelve years or more, to spend a month or two in think ing out and arranging plans for slatting a large business in n neighboring city. And, as 1 have already int imated, things had changed much for the worse with Molly, the servant-maid, since his ar rival. The grims.h nce had given place to jnost open faultfinding, when Mr. Malcolm was not within hearing. The coffee was too strong, the tea too weak, the chickens underdone, the steaks burned, the eggs boiled too hard, the , rooms badly swept, the shirts poorly ironed; ami all those complaints, with ; many more, the elder spinster, con firmed by the younger, gave her to un derstand originated with the guest. “What a hard man to please he must ■ be!” Molly said to herself many times “ And yet he has one of the handsomest ami kindest faces 1 ever saw; and he spoke right pleasantly to jne the first day he camo, amt even offered me his hand (how Miss Cameron did frown!): but I pretended not to see it, for 1 knew it was not my place to shake hands with him. 1! is strange he should have be come so fractions, lie was so good and merry and kind when 1 was a little girl. I’ve heard father say often he'd rather shoe a horse for him than for any one else in the village.” Ami then she would fall to thinking how grand he used to look to her childish eyes when he came riding up on his bay mare to the smithy, where she spent half her time watching her father at the forge. And he always brought her a gay pict ure-book, or a pretty ribbon, or a box of candies, or a bright new silver piece one Christmas it was a gold one and ; claimed a kiss (good gracious! how her cheeks flushed at the remembrance!) for payment when he rode away again. How happy, how very hapuv.ehc had been then, with that dear father and dear old Aunt Nanny! so happy that she had scarcely ever felt the loss of the mother who had died in giving her birth. But when Molly was tiiteen, the blacksmith, so strong and ruddy that it seemed impossible pain or sick ness could ever come near him, fell sick, and after lingering, sorely crippled, for nearly two years, died, leaving no thing to itis darling but hard work. Yes. there was one alternative: to become Mrs. Jake Willow, an I mistress of the forge again; but Jake was a rough. \ ul gar fellow, ami Molly, inheriting the delicate taste- and gentle ways of her mother (who ha< been a shy, pretty young governess before she married the handsome blacksmith), shrank from the loud voice and rude laughter of her would-be husband. And so, in prefer ence to accepting Jake's offer, she be came and 1 leaven know s this was a hard enough thing to do maid-of-all-work in the cottage of the Misses Cameron. Poor little Molly! prettier than many a princess, with lovely, black-fringed gray eyes, and hair of the very darkest brown—hair that would curl in spite of her, to Miss Cameron’s great displeas ure. “If 1 had such untidy hair," that lady would often declare, glancing ap provingly into the mirror at the flat dyed bands that made a triangle of her high narrow forehead, “I'd shave my head;” and.“ We’d certainly shave our heads.” would echo Miss Georgette. The kitchen floor finished, the rugs shaken and returned to their places, the bread put away in the big stone jar in the cupboard. Molly sought her own room (which, truth to tell, was no room at all, but a corner of the garret rudely partitioned off, with only a small sky light to admit light anil air—there were rooms, empty, unused rooms, in the attic, but “they were much too good for a servant.” Miss Cameron said; and “ very much too good for a servant," agreed her sister)—to make ready for her Hitting. Molly looked around it as she tied her straw’ hat over her rebel lious tresses, ami again the tea' s tilled her cj es. It had not been a happy place »of o_.it to her, but it had been a place of rest, and a shelter, and she had been glad to bare it, fearing to leave it lest worse luck lay beyond. And she would not have been com- j pelled to leave it had it hot been for that unfortunate mirror, and the unceasing 1 complaints of the old bachelor. Oi« 1 bachelor! Why, he couldn't be so very 1 old. after all, for he was only one-ami- j twenty (she was then between five and six) when he gave her the ribbons and J books and silver pieces, and she gave ( him the kisses. But the sound of closing shutters broke in on her reverie, and reminded ( her that her departure was waited for, and taking her bundle in her haml, she ran quickly and lightly' down the stain to the parlor, where the maiden ladies sat erect ami stern, their bonnets already on in readiness for the lecture. “I'm going now,” said Molly, stand ing in the doorway, her sweet, pathetic face, with its pleading gray eyes and quivering lips, in no way touching what her mistresses were pleased to call their hearts. “Good-by, ma'am. Good-by, Miss <leorgettc.” But the only reply she got was: “Bear in mind that you are still indebted to us cight-and-twenty dollars. If, however, you should prefer to purchase a mirror yourself in place of the one broken by you, we will consent to receive it, pro vided it is in every way as good as that left us by our grandmother. Ami in that case we will agree to refund the eight dollars, your last month's wages, which we have retained as the first in stallment of your debt; which is really much more than could have keen ex pected <>f us.” “()h yes, indeed, very much more than could have been expected of us,” murmured Miss Georgette. “ For such gross carelessness—” Mi»« Cameron went on. “ Indeed, ma'am,” interrupted Mol ly, her cheeks (laming and her eyes sparkling, “as I have told you 1 never touched it, 1 wasn’t even near it. I w as sweeping the othernidc of the parlor when it fell, and the cord it hung by was all moth eaten, and had parted just in the middle, as I showed you at the time.” “ —Should be punished,” continued Miss Cameron, not paying the slightest at ten! ion to the girl. “Ami one word more. Please to remember that wo have your signal lire to an acknowledg ment that you consider yourself responsi ble for the breakage.” “You frightened me so that 1 scarce ly knew what 1 was signing,” said Molly. “ But as I have promised, I will pay you, for it shall nevi r be said that my father’s daughter broke her word. I’d give you the few dollars I have saved, if 1 had not to keep them for my own support until I get another place. Poor Aunt Nanny can only give me shelter, for, as you know, she has de pended almost entirely on me for tood and clothes ever since my father died.” “Yes, and a very ridiculous thing for both of you,” snapped Miss Cameron, with a cold snap. “She might much better sell the hut she lives in for kindling-wood, and go to the poor-house, and you might much belter save your wages to pay lor tin' things you break. For break you will to the end of your days. 1 never saw a person with such I fly-away hair as yours that was not vain, careless ami frivolous. Yon may go.” “ Yes, indeed, you may go,” added Miss Georgette. And the poor child went out into the road, homeless and almost friendless, with a shadow on her fair voting face and a pain in her young heart. But she had only turned into the long lane that led to old Nanny’s collage, when some one came quickly to her side, and said, in a kindly voice: “Molly! poor little Molly!” ami there was Mr. Mal colm. Ami Molly, in her grief, think ing only of him as the friend of her childhood, who had known her as the darling of the kindest of fathers, flung her bundle down, and burst into a pas sionate flood of tears. “They were hard on me, your sisters. Mr. Malcolm,” she sobbed “very hard on me. I did my best for them. I worked and I am not very strong, though I am a blacksmith’s daughter from morning till night, ami yet 1 could not please them. And it was not my fault about the mirror. It was not —it was not it was not. Though Miss Cameron insists that 1 stopped sweep ing to look at my curly hair—l can’t netp its curling; t <mt everything to make it straight; 1 tied it back so tight, over and over again, that my head ached awful and knocked it with the broom. She was a little better before you came; but after you came, and complained so much about the tea. and the coffee, and your shirts, and—and ev ery thing - ” “ I complain!” exclaimed her listener, breaking in upon her rather confused narration of her wrongs. Why, I never cmplained of anything. How could l!‘ there was nothing to be com plained of.” “She said you did. But I beg par don, sir”- suddenly remembering the difference between the eandy-and-kisses time and the present. “ She is your sister, and and my troubles are noth ing to you.” “She is my sister an extremely long step off.” he replied, gravely, “ and your troubles are a great deal to me; and furthermore, I think 1 see away a pleasant way—out of them. Let me walk with you to your Aunt Nanny 's, and there, with her to advise us, we’ll talk matters over.” “Oh. it’s such a poor place, Mr. Mal colm! Miss Cameron called it a hut, •nd said it was only tit for kindling wood.” * “I’ve been in much poorer places, Molly,' said he. and picking up her bundle, he walked by her side to the old woman's cottage. Two weeks passed by. A poor drudge from the work-house, whose chief (in fact whose sole) recommendation was “no wages,” had taken Molly's place in the Misses Cameron's kitchen. Mr. Malcolm had gone away on business directly after hercoming, and on the even ing appointed for his return, the two sisters, attired in dresses of dull gray, unrelieved by a single touch of color, sat (everything in the house being in healt-chilli ng, dreadful stony or<ler), one at each parlor window, awaitimr his arrival. ° “He must be coming: I think I hear wheels, ’ said the elder, in her usual precise tones. , “Wheels," repeated the sister. And “wheel-" they were, but not the i wheels cf a carriage, but those of a ; truck, and this truck, on which lava < I But the end was not yet. M henev er Mr. Adams met Miss Lawrence, Daisy s words would come into his mind, and the idea of Miss Lawrence “falling into his arms” did not seem at ail distaste ful, in fact each time they met he was more impressed that she would make a very desirable armhill, and at last, in . spite of Miss Lawrence’s blushes and evident avoidance of his attentions, he proposed and was accepted. And Daisy j Green, aside from father and mother, j has no more devoted friends than Mr. and Mrs. Adams. They date all their happiness from the day on which Daisy went out making parish calls. — Mrs. Susie A. Bisbee, in Golden Bule. long wooden box, stopped before the . cottage door. “A mirror for Miss Cameron,” the driver called out as he jumped down. “A mirror!” repeated the spinster, unable to restrain a gesture of surprise. And “A mirror!’’ said Miss Georgette, with another gesture of surprise. “Yes, ma’am; from Willard’s, New York. Where is it to betaken?” “First unpack it out here,” com- | inanded the ladv, recovering her self- | possession. “I can’t have the house littered up with splipters and shav ings!” “No, indeed,” chimed in Miss Geor gette, also recovering her self-pos session. “Splinters and shavings!” So the box was unpacked at the road side, and the mirror taken from it proved to be better and handsomer in every respect than that it had been sent to replace. “I’ve brought wire to hang it with,” said the man, as he carried it into the bouse; “so there’ll be no danger from moths this time.” “Moths!” Miss Cameron, glar ing at him. And “Moths!” echoed her sister, also glaring. Ami they both con tinued to glare, as though called upon to superintend a piece of work highly repugnant to their feelings, until the mirror was hung, and the driver again in his place on the truck. “Os course George sent it,” said Miss Cameron, when the man had driven away. “ But Mary Brown must pay for the other all the same. Our having this makes no difference in regard to the agreement with her.” “No difference in regard to the agree ment with her,” assented Miss Geor gette when who should walk in, in a gray silk walking dress, a bunch of crimson (lowers at her throat, and an other in her belt, and the most coquet tish gray hat, adorned with more crim son (lowers, but Molly herself? “Good-evening,” she said, smilingly. “1 have called for a receipt in full.” “ A receipt in full! And for what, pray? Have you brought the money?” asked her whilom mistress. And, “Have you brought the money?” echoed her other whilom mistress. “No, 1 have not brought the money,” answered Molly; “ but I have sent you a mirror that more than answers ail your requirements.” “You!” from both sisters at once. And again, for the second time in one short hour, they were guilty of being surprised, and letting their surprise be seen. “Yes, I. 1 have the bill with me. A receipt in full, if you please.” Miss Cameron arose, walked in a stately manner —Molly following her— to her desk in the dining-room, seated herself, took pen, ink and paper, and began: “Received from Mary B when— “ Stop a moment,” said Molly; “my name is no longer Mary Brown.” “And what may it be?” inquired Miss Cameron, regarding her with lofty con tempt. “ f //answerthat question,” answered Mr. Malcolm, suddenly appearing, and passing his arm round the slender gray silk waist, thereby crushing the bunch of roses in the natty belt—“ Mrs. George Malcolm.” The pen fell from Miss Cameron’s hand, and for the first time in her lift that estimable woman went into hyster ics, whither her equally estimable sister immediately followed her. And Molly, taking her leave at that moment, never received any receipt, in full or Otherwise, after -M.—Margaret Eu tinge. in Harper's Weekly. Frauds in Brandies. They are chiefly practiced with in ferior spirits in order to make them pass for cognac. It is many years now since the smaller growers began to add to their wines before distilling a certain quantity of inferior cognac or other spirit, such as Montpelier brandy, or bailey, beetroot, molasses, rice, or po tato spirit. Such is the richness in aroma of the pure and true cognac that it has enough and to spare for these ad ditions of insipid alcohols. This fraud —and many maintain that it is no fraud —is undiscovered except by a very ex perienced taster indeed, gifted with a most sensitive palate; detection is easier when the foreign spirit is add ed after instead of before distilla tion. Then the biting harshness of new brandy is taken offwith two drops of liquid ammonia to the bottle; the alkali neutralizing a portion of the essential oils which are chiefly given out bv the grape-skins. Cream of tartar and candied sugar are also used for this pur pose. The color of age is got expedi- j tiously without molasses, either natural I or burned; and this last is employed to , produce the brown brandy of the Eng- i lish. But more elastic consciences, helped on by the scientific chemists, have descended by little and little to making cognac out of beetroot, maize, potato spirit, or any other alcohol that turns up in the market. For this a ' whole laboratory is required, embracing • •uch matters as grape-sirup, burnt sugar, infusion of bitter-almond shells, j yanille, tea. the root of the Florence ! iris (which we corruptly call orris-root), angelica seed, lemon-rind, walnut husks, liquorice, camomile, mini catechu, and Tolu balsam.—B7. James' Gazette. , r, ’cently born near Brown's ■ Mills, N. without hind legs has be- I (■•'mi exlraordinarilv expert in the uso of its tore legs. When in no particular : u tv ii draws itself along on its hind quaiters hut when it is a question of ling 'o the trough at feeding time I ' “ ii.tr balances itself upon ii- one fee and trots along with the ‘ ] < ;>T't < o.ubination of grarx* and effi- , eienc',. j f ™ 'i - - -> - ■ r .-: .-• II v<• rv 1. ■ 1(• ' :i: i out >15.000 'for it. and .ret ? putting in machinery and -haft, which was already down hundred feet or more. He worked j away on the mine, people laughing at him a good deal, but he never once lost . heart. Tt-x mine had not shown up a I single thing in thp way of mineral, and the"shaft had been "sunk by that time icveral hundred feet. Dexter did not know what to do. He had now spent nearly all the money he had and noth ing was coming in. One day in the early part of the year 1879 a party came to him and asked him what he would take ror his mine. Dexter told him, ! and a bargain was made between them, i The price paid was, I think, 830,000, some 85,000 more than Dexter had spent on it altogether. He was mighty glad to get the $30,000, and thought himself well out of a bad bargain. He rushed out onto Carbonate Hill and ordered the miners to drop their tools and quit work. This was about three o’clock in the afternoon. He said: ‘Boys, I have sold this hole, and 1 don’t want you to work another minute in it for me. I will pay you oft right now, and you can quit.’ Well,the miners had just finished a drill and were going to place a blast and uncover some rock, and they asked to be allowed to finish it before they quit work. ‘ No, 1 said Dexter, ‘come out; I don t want you to work any more; there’s nothing in the | old hole.’ The men reluctantly quit ! and reported. Dexter got his money and was happy. Well, the mine had been bought by a stock company, and in a short time they began work on it. Now, young man, what ( am going to tell you is the solemn truth,” said the miner. “Those fellows went up there to that mine and laid a fuse to the blast left by Dexter’s men and touched it off. After the smoke cleared away they went in to sei' how much rock had been loos ened, when what do you think? There before their eyes they saw the richest body of silver ore which has ever been seen since the world began. At that time hundreds of thousands of dollars met the gaze of the delighted owners of the richest kind of ore. Well, young fellow,” continued Mr. Knowles, “that mine was the celebrated Robert E. Lbe, which has made everybody rich who has had anything to do with it since Jimmy Dexter sold it. Millions of dollars have been turned out of it, and it is the great est silver mine in the world.” The re porter asked the miner how Dexter took the misfortune. “Well,” he replied, ‘ ‘ they say Dexter would cry for a long time after whenever he heard the name of the mine mentioned, but I don’t know how that is. He got hold of other mining property with the money re ceived, and is now a rich man, living in Denver in line style. He has the repu tation of having the most elegantly fur nished house in Denver, and it surely is a beautiful place.” A Lively Subject. There used to be a story current of a perplexing incident in the life of John Hunter, the celebrated surgeon, which has a certain grim drollery about it. One night, on receiving from Jack Ketch a “subject” who had been hanged that morning at Newgate— such hangings and such subjects were very common in those days—he perceived somehow or other the vital spark was not quite ex tinct. His professional zeal was in stantly aroused ; he applied all his skill to the task, and, in short, succeeded, to his scientific satisfaction, in restoring the law’s victim to his entire faculties again. But his satisfaction was some what short-lived, for the resuscitated felon insisted upon looking to his bene factor for his future subsistence. He argued that, as be had striven to bring him, as it were, a second time into the world, he must be regarded in loco parentis. Hunter, always a nervous man, and by no means convinced that he had not offended grievously against the laws in his little experiment, had no alternative but to comply to the demands of his ungrateful patient, who was by no means modest in his visits. After a time, however, they ceased; but even that brought no comfort to poor Hun ter, who lived in perpetual terror of his tormentor unexpectedly popping upon him. At last he reappeared before him again. One tine evening another New gate importation was brought to the private door of the dissecting-room, and, to his intense satisfaction, he once more recognized the well-remembered feat ures. Hunter used to say, with a grim smile, that he took speedy care mot to give him a second chance. The Telegraph. The first telegraph line in operation was between Paddington and Drayton, in England, in 1835, thirteen miles in length. Professor Morse, on March 3, 1842, was voted an appropriation of $30,000 by Congress, for the purpose of I establishing an experimental line. Th* ! appropriation was made on the last night , of the session. The line was erected I between Washington and Baltimore, and the first message sent May 27, 1844 By the reports of October 18, 1881, the following will show the number of miles of telegraph in the United States at that time: j Miles of Miles of Company. line. wires. • Western Union 110.340 327,171 Mutual Union 1.800 50.000 Baltimore and American Rapid Tel. C 0.... 500 t’soo International, Ocean 502 '574 The aggregate mileage of telegraph lines in the United States open for public business exceeds 120,C00 miles, besides railway, Government, private, and tele phonic lines, length not ascertainable. Correct speech is such an indisputa ble mark of a lady or gentleman that it cannot be too often repeated that the true standard of pronunciation is one in which all marks of a particular place of birth and residence are lost, and in which nothing appears to indicate any habits of intercourse other than with the well-bred and well-informed wherever i thev may be found. < - mar"us and'always excited WMHSI incredulity. At length a fellow-dimt ; said to him: . , ' “Lemonoski, I have often heard you < fight over your old battles, now let me j give you my sad military experience. I , was a soldier in the Black Hark war In ] the very first engagement I saw three , stalwart Indians coming m full speed . after my scalp. I was armed with an , old-fashioned double-barreied shot-gun. I let her loose upon the two that were m the lead, and killed them as dead as Jul ius Ciesar. The third came rushing upon me with his bloody tomahawk raised above his head, and what do you suppose happened then? “ You killed him, of course. “Not exactly,” quietly replied Black Hawk warrior; “he killed me. A rear of laughter was raised among t’ne bystanders and poor Lemonoski s yarns were knocked clear out of him. ' Gen. Jackson, about the year 1832, gave Jimmie Maher the appointment of public gardener in Washington. Salary 81,500 a year and trimmings. The trim mings, perhaps, amounted to a much larger sum. To keep the public grounds hi proper order were the duties to be performed. Jimmie, when I made his acquaintance, knew every body 1 Henry Clay down to Ephraim Frost, the ; colored hack-driver. He was a warm hearted, liberal Irishman. He never took a drink, save when he was thirsty, and thou ho invited all the bystanders to join him. He prided himself on his adherence to what he called “dimooratic principles. Some hungry Whigs in 1841 wanted his place, and Jimmie, for a while, was very uneasy. One morning he met Gen. Harrison in the public grounds, and taking oft his hat, he thus addressed him: “ I presume this is Gineral Harrison, I’rizident of the United States.” Receiving an affirmative answer, he continued: ‘‘My name is Maher. lam uooblic gardner.” “ Well, Mr. Maher, I like the appear ance of these grounds; they look in much j better condition than they did when I was a Senator. ” “ Och, its me trade; was fetched up to it; but, may it plaze your Honor, it’s rumored about here that I’m to be dis missed. ” —. “ Dismissed for what?” “Because I was a friend to Mr. Van Buren. ” “No, Mr. Maher, nobody is author ized to say that you will be dismissed on that account.” “ A thousand thanks to your Excel lency. You see I was acquainted with Mr. Van Buren. He always treated me like a gentleman, and I was for him; but I have no doubt after we get a little bet ter acquainted I shall be for you.” Harrison smiled, and assured him that lie had no idea of turning him out. Whereupon Jimmie broke down to the place wdrere he had some hands at work and gave them a report of his interview. He closed it with this grand exclamation: “By Jove, boys, Prizident Harrison is a rale Gineral Jackson of a fellow!” About three weeks after the inaugura tion of Gen. Harrison a well-dressed young man of some thirty summers walked into one of the hotels of this city with a fiddle on his arm and said: “Gentlemen (all eyes were at once turned upon him). I have come here like thousands of others to s#e what I could see and get what I could get; but I have been disappointed in eyerything. I got no office, got out of Aioney, and got many miles to retrace; I am too hon est to steal, too pround to beg, and I concluded to come in here to-day and make a little in an honest way.” Suiting the action to the word, ha be gan to play the fiddle. This 'comical scene afforded considerable amusement to the persons there assembled. They asked him how much money it would take to carry him home. He said S4O. In less than ten minutes that amount wa» raised for him. Sitting down and count ing over his money, he found that they had given him $43. “ByGeorge!” said he, “here’s a sur plus of $3. Come in, gentlemen, all of you, and take something to drink.” I never saw nor heard of him after ward. I have regretted that I did not learn his name and keep the hang of him. The chances are that he has since filled some high political position.—Washing ton Letter. » Wants in a Great City. Among the advertisements in the New York Sun Is one for “first-class waist bauds.” This is a fine opportunity for some young man to embrace. Another advertisement reads, “Wanted, a boy to feed and kick at 303 West Twenty-first street. Wages, $4.” This sounds as if it might come from “ Shepherd” Cowley, though he did not feed his boys. “A baker” is also wanted. This must call for the man who was hurrying down street swinging his two hands, and it was plain to everybody that he had also got a little behind hand—miWAuff a i third hand. Still another advertisement calls for “A stout young man to be gen erally useful about an ice cream saloon.” The most generally useful young man in an ice cream saloon is the one who brings in the girls there, early and often, but it is hard to understand why he sb< nc. I fl fl fl fl fl fl fl having been ma le re the Delaware line and asked, indicating that a dtu\ '/»« ‘ some hostile encounter, wft .i- plation between these mysterious 'j'-mtry. Late in the night, or rather early in the morning, they left the town, driv ing directly east. They were followed by some citizens of the village, whoso curiosity had induced them to watch their movements, but were not overtaken, and no one, it seems, resident in Elkton was an eye-witness to the duel, which occurred at an early hour on the morn ing of the twenty-sixth, on Grey’s Hill, about one mile east of the town. As it afterward proved, the principles in the affair had taken assumed names, one of them being addressed as Moore; the other as GokL mth. In reality, how ever, they were Mr. August Belmont, of New York, the American agent of the Rothschilds, and who has since figured very prominently as a New York Demo cratic politician, and Mr. William Hay ward, of South Carolina. They had been together residents of the American Hotel, in New York, and the quarrel seems to have originated in a “love af fair.” Hayward’s brother stated at the time that' Belmont’s intimacy with a lady had been resented by Hayward, and the former having spoken of the latter in terms not particularly compli mentary, Hayward had struck Belmont, whereupon the latter had challenged him to mortal combat. Intent upon blood, they had arranged a duel, to be fought upon the classic soil of Dela ware, and for that purpose had taken carriages at Wilmington and driven to Elkton, intending to meet upon the field of honor by sunrise, just over the Delaware line. As it turned out, however, they did 1 not drive far enough east, and the soil of Grey’s Hill, in Cecil County, was reddened with the blood of the Hebrew banker, and which in later years, the execution of Swift, the murderer of Kilhour, rendered more notorious. A gentleman named Lake acted as second to Belmont, and Mr. Purdy served Hay ward in a similar capacity. Arriving upon the ground, the principals were placed by their seconds, and upon the first round Mr. Belmont was shot in the hip. One fire, it seems, was sufficent to appease the wounded feelings of these chivalrous gentlemen* and Mr. Belmont was borne bleeding to his carriage. At the time it was supposed that he was mortally wounded. Taking to their carriages, the sanguin ary Southerner and the Hebrew were driven to Wilmington, Elkton, not then, nor since, so far as wc know, having been honored by the presence of either of these barbaric gentlemen. High Heels and Deformed Feet. A prominent surgeon remarked the other day, after performing a painnil operation on an interesting little girl whose feet had been ruined by wearing wrongly constructed shoes, “this is the beginning of a large harvest of such eases,” and what else can be expected? Mothers walk the streets with heels on their boots from two to three and a half inches high and not more than an inch in diameter, and their daughters follow the same bad and barbarous prac tice. In many cases severe sprains of the ankles are suffered. But these are not the worst points of the high-heel torture. The toes are forced against the fore part of the foot, and soon begin to assume unnatural positions. In many cases they are actually dislocated. In others the great toe passes under the foot, and the tendons harden in that po sition, and lameness is the result, for which there is no cure but the knife. When the injury does not take this form it assumes other aspects quite as grave, and perhaps more distressing. There are thousands of young girls tripping along the streets to-day who in a few years will be cripples if their parents do not interfere and remove the cause. We shall have a race of women almost as helpless, as far as the feet arc concerned, as those of China. We condemn the practice of confin ing the feet of childrenin wooden shoes, and yet that practice is no more inju rious to the feet than forcing them into a small shoe with an Alpine heel. This is a matter of grave and serious import, and hence we press it upon the moth ers and fathers of the land. If they would not feed the surgical hospitals and have groups of maimed daughters ■ in their homes they must commence a I crusade upon the high heels. No father i should have high-heeled boots, in his house any more than he would have a vicious dog in his parlor. When prom inent surgeons from the operating room raise their voices against high-heeled boots it is time for old and young peo ple to pause and listen. At this period they can choose between high heels and the knife. In a short time it may bcjMflflttMlL-nernuuMafediijti|| Jb JB