"Harry does not talk so much as he used to;" observed Miss Wyllys; "don't you think he has grown silent, Jane?" "Perhaps he has," she replied; "but it never struck me, before." "Do you hear, Harry?" said Elinor; "Aunt Agnes thinks the air of Paris has made you silent. It ought surely to have had a very different effect." "This detestable road requires all a man's attention to keep out of the ruts;" he replied. "I wish we had gone the other way." "If Aunt Agnes has no objection, we can come back by the river road," said Elinor. "But your coachmanship is so good, you have carried us along very smoothly; if the road is bad, we have not felt it." Harry muttered something about holes and ruts, which was not heard very distinctly. "Out of humour, too; very unusual!" thought Miss Agnes. There was a something unnatural in his manner, which began to give her a little uneasiness; for she saw no good way of accounting for it. The ladies were driven to the door of the Bellevue Hotel, where the Grahams had rooms. They found several visiters with Mrs. Graham, among whom, the most conspicuous, and the least agreeable, were Mrs. Hilson and her sister, both redolent of Broadway, elegant and fashionable in the extreme; looking, it is true, very pretty, but talking, as usual, very absurdly. Mrs. Graham had scarcely kissed her daughter, before Mrs. Hilson gave Elinor an important piece of information. "I am so delighted, Miss Wyllys, to hear this good news--" "My cousins' return, do you mean? Did you not know they had arrived?" "Oh, yes; we heard that, of course, last week; but I allude to this morning's good news, which I have just heard from this fascinating little creature;" added the lady, catching one of Mrs. Graham's younger children, as it slipped past her. Elinor looked surprised, when Mrs. Hilson condescended to explain. "Mrs. Graham is to pass the winter in New York, I hear." "Indeed!" exclaimed Elinor, turning with joyful eagerness towards Mrs. Graham. "Are you really going to stay so near us?"