"I know it all," she answered. "It was my mother that pressed it on me. What then? Was it not the very reason that determined me? Oh, Randolph, do not think so lightly of me, as to suppose such things would turn me from my vow. Do not think I would recall what is my only hope, my last-remaining joy. I have nothing left but you. Do not fancy I regret what is gone." Brief, but earnest and decided, was the conversation that ensued. Passion carried all before it. Mildred thought that, with the help of her faithful Rhoda, she could escape the same evening. Randolph would arrange everything for their flight. The north road would conduct them, if not to happiness, at least to security. A few rapid sentences settled all preliminary details; and the lovers parted, to meet again before many hours were over. There was now no time for reflection. Randolph had not a minute to spare. There were letters to write for Helen and for Mr. Riches, short as possible, giving, after all, no information. There were funds to provide, little requisites to collect. When Randolph stood by his carriage under the trees of Grosvenor-square, he seemed scarcely to have rested a moment from the time he left Kensington-gardens. Late in the evening it was. Mildred had retired for the night. Rhoda showed her young mistress, in a slight disguise, to Mrs. Pendarrel's door, as a visitor, and speedily slipped out, unseen, herself. They reached the carriage in safety. The elopement was complete. Scandal laughed in the wind that swept through the trees, as the fugitives were whirled from the square. CHAPTER VII. The father was steel, and the mother was stone; They lifted the latch, and they bid him begone. But loud on the morrow their wail and their cry! He had laughed on the lass with his bonny black eye, And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale. Scott. The flight was not detected. So when Mrs. Pendarrel descended in the morning to the breakfast room, she was surprised at finding no Mildred there to receive her. She did not at first take much heed to the circumstance, but herself commenced what had usually been her daughter's duty. But when she had been some time joined by her husband, and there were still no signs of the young lady, she desired a servant to send Miss Pendarrel's maid to inquire whether her mistress was not ready for breakfast. Answer came in a few minutes, that Miss Pendarrel's maid was not to be found. Esther then felt some uneasiness; would herself look after the bird; found the cage empty; an incoherent note on the dressing-table:-- "Dearest mother," Mildred briefly wrote, "I can bear it no longer. Every day sinks me deeper in deceit. You do not know--you never can tell, how I have struggled. Why did you upbraid him? Oh, mother, why did you seem to rejoice in his sorrow? I feel that I can only be his. When you know all my despair, you will forgive your child."