Mr. Torrens then imprinted a cold kiss upon the fair foreheads of Adelais and Rosamond, and hastily quitted the apartment. For some minutes after the door had closed behind them, the sisters sat gazing upon each other in the silence of painful and awful reflection. Yet beautiful were they in their sorrow; for the unstudied attitudes and abandonment of limb which such a state of mind produces, gave additional grace to the just proportions of their forms, and imparted an expression of the most tender interest to the perfect composition of their features. "Sister," at length said Rosamond, in a soft and mournful tone, as she approached Adelais, "what will you do?" This question suddenly aroused the unhappy young lady to a sense of the urgent necessity of adopting some decisive measure. Winding her arms around Rosamond's neck, she said, "I must fly from my father's house—I must abandon the paternal dwelling. O heaven! wherefore am I reduced to so fearful an alternative?" "Speak not only of yourself, beloved Adelais," murmured Rosamond chidingly; "for you know that my fate, as well as my heart, is inseparably linked with thine." "Oh! I doubt not the sincerity of your love for me, dearest sister," exclaimed Miss Torrens; "but I tremble at the idea of making you the companion of my flight. Have we not read in books, dear girl, that London is a dreadful place—abounding in perils of all kinds, and concealing pit-falls beneath its most pleasant places? Oh! Rosamond, you are so young—so very young to quit your father's home and venture in that great city of danger and crime!" "But with you as my companion, Adelais, I shall have courage to meet all those perils of which you speak," responded Rosamond, the tones of her voice becoming so gentle, so melting, and so persuasive, that never did she seem so dear—so very dear unto her sister as at this moment. And now all hesitation was banished on the part of Adelais:—it was settled—it was determined—Rosamond should become the companion of her flight! CHAPTER XIII. THE ELOPEMENT. Let us now return to Rainford, whom we left on his way back to London, after having so triumphantly eased the vain-glorious Mr. Frank Curtis of the two thousand pounds. The highwayman,—for such indeed was the gay, generous-hearted, and brave Tom Rain,—scarcely condescended to bestow even a chuckle of satisfaction upon a victory so easily won—an exploit so readily accomplished. He would have valued the prize far more, had it been obtained by means of hard blows and as the result of a desperate encounter; for the love of adventure was inherent in his disposition—and he had often courted danger in his life, for the exciting pleasure of freeing himself from its intricacy.