Amelia meanwhile, in Russell Square, was looking at the moon, which was shining upon that peaceful spot, as well as upon the square of the Chatham barracks, where Lieutenant Osborne was quartered, and thinking to herself how her hero was employed. Perhaps he is visiting the sentries, thought she; perhaps he is bivouacking; perhaps he is attending the couch of a wounded comrade, or studying the art of war up in his own desolate chamber. And her kind thoughts sped away as if they were angels and had wings, and flying down the river to Chatham and Rochester, strove to peep into the barracks where George was. . . . All things considered, I think it was as well the gates were shut, and the sentry allowed no one to pass; so that the poor little white-robed angel could not hear the songs those young fellows were roaring over the whisky-punch.

Amelia, meanwhile, was looking at the moon, and thinking of her hero. Perhaps he is visiting the sentries, thought she; perhaps he is bivouacking, or attending the bed of a wounded comrade, or studying the art of war up in his own desolate chamber. All things considered, I think it was as well the poor little angel could not hear the songs those young fellows were roaring over the whisky-punch.
