Before night the little warning sentence, written by the Saratoga correspondent, was running from lip to lip all over S——.  Some pitied, some blamed, and not a few were glad in their hearts of the disgrace; for Mrs. Dewey had so carried herself among us as to destroy all friendly feeling.

There was an expectant pause for several days.  Then it was noised through the town that Mr. Dewey had returned, bringing his wife home with him.  I met him in the street on the day after.  There was a heavy cloud on his brow.  Various rumors were afloat.  One was—­it came from a person just arrived from Saratoga—­that Mr. Dewey surprised his wife in a moonlight walk with a young man for whom he had no particular fancy, and under such lover-like relations, that he took the liberty of caning the gentleman on the spot.  Great excitement followed.  The young man resisted—­Mrs. Dewey screamed in terror—­people flocked to the place—­and mortifying exposure followed.  This story was in part corroborated by the following paragraph in the Herald’s Saratoga correspondence: 

“We had a spicy scene, a little out of the regular performance, last evening; no less than the caning of a New York sprig of fashion, who made himself rather more agreeable to a certain married lady who dashes about here in a queenly way than was agreeable to her husband.  The affair was hushed up.  This morning I missed the lady from her usual place at the breakfast-table.  Later in the day I learned that her husband had taken her home.  If he’ll accept my advice, he will keep her there.”

“Poor Mrs. Floyd!” It was the mother’s deep sorrow and humiliation that touched the heart of my Constance when this disgraceful exposure reached her.  “She has worn to me a troubled look for this long while,” she added.  “The handsome new house which the Squire built, and into which they moved last year, has not, with all its elegant accompaniments, made her any more cheerful than she was before.  Mrs. Dean told me that her sister was very much opposed to leaving her old home; but the Squire has grown rich so fast that he must have everything in the external to correspond with his improved circumstances.  Ah me!  If, with riches, troubles so deep must come, give me poverty as a blessing.”

A week passed, and no one that I happened to meet knew, certainly, whether Mrs. Dewey was at home or not.  Then she suddenly made her appearance riding about in her stylish carriage, and looking as self-assured as of old.

“That was a strange story about Mrs. Dewey,” said I to a lady whom I was visiting professionally.  I knew her to be of Mrs. Dewey’s set.  Don’t smile, reader; we had risen to the dignity of having a fashionable “set,” in S——­, and Mrs. Dewey was the leader.

The lady shrugged her shoulders, drew up her eyebrows, and looked knowing and mysterious.  I had expected this, for I knew my subject very well.

“You were at Saratoga,” I added; “and must know whether rumor has exaggerated her conduct.”