At the first sound of fife and drum, Bess snatched up Jabez, and leaving house and batting-frame to take care of themselves, rushed along the street to the “Sun Inn” corner, where Long Millgate turns at a sharp angle, the old Grammar School and the Chetham College gate standing at the outer bend of the elbow. The better to see, she mounted the steps of the house next to the “Sun”—a house kept by a leather-breeches maker,—and strained her eyes as the gay procession wound from the apple-market, passed the handsome black-and-white frame-house of the Grammar School’s head-master, and, with banners flying, and drums beating, marched under the ancient arched gateway between a double row of blue-coat boys. She held Jabez high up in her arms to let him see, and his little arms clasped her neck, as she scanned every passing soldier’s features. Two-thirds of the corps had passed—she saw the loved and looked-for face, and, radiant with delight, stretched forward, and in eager tones called—“Tom!” There was a mutual start of recognition; two faces crimsoned to the brow; then one white as ashes, a keen meaning glance at the child, teeth clenched, and eyes set with stern resolution; and, without another look, without a word, Tom Hulme went on under the Whale’s-jawbone gateway: and Bess, with brain bewildered, hands and limbs relaxed, sank on the breeches-maker’s steps in a dead faint. A lady (Mrs. Chadwick), who had a little girl by the hand, caught Jabez as they fell, and putting his hand in her daughter’s, bade her take care of him—she was perhaps a year or two older than he,—whilst she raised the poor young woman’s head, and applied a smelling-bottle to her nose. Strange parting, strange meeting! How close the founts of sweet and bitter waters lie! How often separate streams of life meet and part again; some to meet and blend in after years, some to meet never more! Another week, and Lord Wilton’s Lancashire volunteer regiment had a man the less, the line had a man the more. Private Thomas Hulme had exchanged. CHAPTER THE FIFTH.[16] ELLEN CHADWICK. The song of the human throstle was heard no more floating across the batting-frame out of the window of its cage, in the dreary yard on the banks of the Irk. The swish of the wands might be heard when other sounds were low, but no more snatches of melody flowed in between. Kind-hearted Mrs. Chadwick had not been content to leave poor Bessy at the breeches-maker’s when her swoon was over; but, seeing that the girl continued in a dazed kind of stupor, sent to the adjoining “Sun Inn” for cold brandy-and-water, to stimulate the dormant mind. Bess drank, half unconsciously, and Mrs. Chadwick, leaving her little daughter Ellen to amuse astonished Jabez, waited patiently until the young woman could collect her ideas, and not only tell where she lived, but prepare to walk home.