My question was answered in the affirmative.

“How is she?”

“Looking very well.”

There was no warmth or feeling in my wife’s voice or manner, although Delia had been a favorite with her, and we had often talked about the pleasure we should have in meeting her again.

“Have you nothing more to say of our young friend?” I asked.

“She is very much changed.”

“For the better?”

“Some might think so.  I do not.”  There was a disappointed manner about my wife.

“In what respect is she changed?”

“Some would say that she had grown handsome; and, in truth, her countenance strikes you, at first, as much improved.  It is rounded to a fuller outline, and has a style about it, caught, I suppose, from city life and feeling.  But she carries her head with a statelier air than is becoming Squire Floyd’s daughter; and I am very sure, that, as the wife of Ralph Dewey, she has acquired no special consequence.  Rich jewelry may be very well in city drawing-rooms, and public assemblages, where dress is made conspicuous.  But to sport diamond ear-rings and breastpin, splendid enough for a countess, in her father’s little parlor, and before the eyes of friends who loved her once for herself alone, savored so strongly of weak pride and vanity, that I could not look upon her with any of my old feelings.  It was Delia Floyd no longer.  Already, the pure, sweet, artless maiden, had changed into a woman of the world, dressed up for show.  Ah, my husband! if this is the effect of city life, let me never breathe its tainted atmosphere.”

And she dropped her eyes, with a sigh, and sat, lost in thought, for several moments.

“Your account of Delia pains me,” said I.  “Is the case indeed so bad?”

“It is.  Alas! the fine gold is dimmed.  Our sweet young friend has strayed from the paths of nature, and will never, I fear, get back again.”

“Had you any conversation with her?” I inquired.

“Yes:  or, rather I listened to her, as she ran on about her city life; the grand people with whom, she had already become acquainted; and the splendor of balls, parties, soirees, and operas.  I grew sober as she talked:  for not one true womanly sentiment fell from her lips.  She did not express interest in any of her new friends and acquaintances for the good qualities they possessed; but spoke of their wealth, style of living, social connections, and other attractions wholly external to the individual.  She was even eloquent over star actresses and opera singers; one or two of whom she spoke of having met at the house of a fashionable friend.”

“How true the old adage, that evil communications corrupt good manners!” said I.

“There must be some radical weakness in a case of such sudden deterioration as this,” replied my wife.  “Some latent vanity and love of the world.  I cannot believe that one sensible young woman in ten would be spoiled to the degree that Delia is spoiled, if you passed her through like temptations.”