In the mighty stream, of which men and women are the waves, that poured ceaselessly along its channels, friends met surprised—­touched each other’s hands.

“Came in this morning—­off to-night—­droll it looks—­nobody in town—­”

And the tumultuous throng bore them apart.

In the evening the Park Theatre is jammed to hear Mr. Forrest, who made his first appearance in Philadelphia nine or ten years ago, and is already a New York favorite.  Contoit’s garden flutters with the cool dresses of the promenaders, who move about between the arbors looking for friends and awaiting ices.  The click of billiard balls is heard in the glittering cafe at the corner of Reade Street, and a gay company smokes and sips at the Washington Hotel.  Life bursts from every door, from every window, but there is nobody in town.

More than two hundred thousand men, women, and children go to their beds and wake up to the morrow, but there is nobody in town.  Nobody in town, because Mrs. Boniface Newt & Co. have gone to Saratoga—­no cathedral left, because some plastering has tumbled off an upper stone—­no forest left, because a few leaves have whirled away.  Nobody in town, because Mrs. Boniface Newt & Co. have gone to Saratoga, and are doing their part of the world’s work there.

Mr. Alfred Dinks, Mr. Zephyr Wetherley, and Mr. Bowdoin Beacon, were slowly sauntering down Broadway, when, they were overtaken and passed by a young woman walking rapidly for so warm a morning.

There was an immense explosion of adjectives expressing surprise when the three young, gentlemen discovered that the young lady who was passing them was Miss Amy Waring.

“Why, Miss Waring!” cried they, simultaneously.

She bowed and smiled.  They lifted their hats.

“You in town!” said Mr. Beacon.

“In town?” echoed Mr. Dinks.

“Town?” murmured Mr. Wetherley.

“Town,” said Miss Waring, with her eyes sparkling.

“Where did you come from?  I thought you were all at Saratoga,” she continued.

“It’s stupid there,” said Mr. Beacon.

“Quite stupid,” echoed Mr. Dinks.

“Stupid,” murmured Mr. Wetherley.

“Stupid?” asked the lady, this time making the interrogation in the antistrophe of the chant.

“We wanted a little fun.”

“A little fun.”

“Fun,” replied the gentlemen.

“Well, I’m going about my business,” said she.  “Good-morning.”

“About your business?”

“Your business?”

“Business?” murmured the youths, in order.  Zephyr concluding.

“Business!” said Miss Amy, bursting into a little laugh, in which the listless, perfectly good-humored youths cheerfully joined.

“It’s dreadful hot,” said Mr. Beacon.

“Oh! horrid!” said Mr. Dinks.

“Very,” said Zephyr.  And the gentlemen wiped their foreheads.

“Coming to Saratoga, Miss Waring?” they asked.