Almost daily, while the pleasant fall weather lasted, did I meet the handsome carriage of Mrs. Dewey; but I noticed that she went less through the town, and oftener out into the country. And I also noticed that she rode alone more frequently than she had been accustomed to do. Formerly, one fashionable friend or another, who felt it to be an honor to sit in the carriage of Mrs. Dewey, was generally to be seen in her company when she went abroad. Now, the cases were exceptional. I also noticed a gathering shade of trouble on her face. The fact was, opinion had commenced setting against her. The unhappy affair at Saratoga was not allowed to sleep in the public mind of S----. It was conned over, magnified, distorted, and added to, until it assumed most discreditable proportions; and ladies who respected themselves began to question whether it was altogether reputable to be known as her intimate friends. The less scrupulous felt the force of example as set by these, and began receding also. In a large city, like New York, the defection would only have been partial; for there, one can be included in many fashionable circles, while only a few of them may be penetrated by a defaming rumor. But in a small town like S----, the case is different. I was surprised when I comprehended the meaning of this apparent isolation of herself by Mrs. Dewey, and saw, in progress, the ban of social ostracism. While I pitied the victim, I was glad that we had virtue enough, even among our weak-minded votaries of fashion, to stamp with disapproval the conduct of which she had been guilty. “I saw Mrs. Dewey this morning,” said my wife, one day, late in November. “She was in at Howard's making some purchases.” “Did you speak to her?” “Yes, we passed a few words. How much she has changed!” “For the worse?” “Yes. She appears five years older than she did last summer, and has such a sad, disappointed look, that I could not help pitying her from my heart.” “There are few who need your pity more, Constance. I think she must be wretched almost beyond endurance. So young, and the goblet which held the shine of her life broken, and all its precious contents spilled in the thirsty sand at her feet. Every one seems to have receded from her.” “The common sentiment is against her; and yet, I am of those who never believed her any thing worse than indiscreet.” “Her indiscretion was in itself a heinous offence against good morals,” said I; “and while she has my compassion, I have no wish to see a different course of treatment pursued towards her.”