“Oh, mamma and my aunts are wanting ever so to know if the review is going to be on Camp Field or on Sale Moor; and Aunt Ellen says it’s to be in one place, and mamma thinks it’s the other; and so, as I was dressed first, I just slipped out at the back door, and ran here to ask Prince William himself, for I thought _he_ would be sure to know.” The gentleman laughed heartily, and the others followed suit. “And who is your mamma, my dear?” “My mamma is Mrs. Chadwick, and I’m Ellen Chadwick; and we live in Oldham Street.” “Oh, indeed! And why are the ladies so anxious to know where the Prince holds the review?” asked the officer on whose knee she sat. “Ah—that’s just it. If he reviews at Sale Moor, he will go past our house; and then we shall see all the soldiers from our own windows. Won’t it be fine?” Another gentleman asked what the ladies were doing when she left; and I’m afraid Ellen made more revelations anent their toilettes than were strictly necessary, for the laughter was prolonged. She had not, however, lost sight of her self-imposed mission. Struggling from her seat, she said— “Oh, please do tell me where is Prince William; I must go home, and I do so want to know.” “Tell your mamma, Miss Ellen,” said he, smiling, “that the Prince will review at Sale Moor; and take this, my dear, for yourself,” putting a shilling (shillings at that time were perfectly plain from over-long use) in her hand. “Oh, thank you! But are you sure—quite sure it is Sale Moor?” “Quite sure.” The little damsel set off, as much elated with her news as with her shilling. As she ran briskly down the broad steps, and beyond the barrier, she came in contact with Simon, who made way for her exit; and, as she looked up smiling to thank him, her glance rested for a moment on the boy he carried; but no spark of recognition flashed into the eyes of either, and no one in all that crowd saw any connection between that dainty white-frocked, pink-slippered, pink-sashed miss, and the rough lad in the patched suit (a Clough’s cast-off) and wooden clogs. CHAPTER THE SIXTH. TO MARTIAL MUSIC. A second time Jabez and Ellen saw each other ere the day was out. She had rushed home with eager feet and eyes, through back streets, to startle Mrs. Chadwick, her newly-married sister, Mrs. Ashton, and a bevy of friends, with the confident assurance that the review would be at Sale, and to confirm it by the display of the plain shilling, which “an osifer had given her.” New Cross, where the volunteers assembled, was not then a misnomer. A market cross occupied the centre space between the four wide thoroughfares, of which Oldham Street is one; and the open area was considerable. The trumpets’ bray, the tramp of troops, were heard long before the brilliant cavalcade was set in motion; and every window—every house in Oldham Street (all good private residences of the Gower Street stamp) held its quota of heads and eyes, and costumes as brilliant as the eyes.