they have their gymnastic apparatus to go to;
as soon as that begins to pall, there are
their little shrimping-nets to tempt them to
paddle in the salt sea waves, and catch what
shrimps and crabs they can. Was there ever a
child that did not delight to dabble in water?
Bravo, Monsieur Husson, director-general!
Your heart is in your work. The children who
are to be kept through the winter will have
warm water to bathe and dabble in.

Here is their dietary for three successive days:
Tuesday: breakfast, bread-and-butter, with milk
to drink; dinner, soup with vegetables, roast
mutton (the dearest meat in France), baked
potatoes; supper, soup, roast mutton, fish.
Wednesday: breakfast, milk-soup and bread;
dinner, meat-soup, boiled beef, fresh vegetables;
supper, soup, beef ragoût, with French plums in
it. Thursday: breakfast, bread-and-butter and
milk; dinner, soup with vegetables, roast veal,
potatoes; supper, soup, roast veal, potatoes.

The day is thus occupied during summer:
Rise at six; prayers and mass at seven; breakfast
at half-past seven; from eight till nine,
school, nominal, most of the children being too
seriously ill to attend to anything of the kind;
the least unwell learn a little catechism and
ABC; walk and play from nine till ten; sea-
bathing and medical dressings from ten till half-
past eleven. At half-past eleven, dinner.

Recreation from twelve till one; from one
till two, the doctor's visit; from two till three,
school, nominal, mostly taken up with the
doctor's prolonged inspection; from three till
half-past four, sea-bathing—which is performed
twice a day—and medical dressings; at half-
past four, "goûter," a little bit of something to
stay the stomach; from five to half-past six,
walk and play; at seven, supper; at eight,
extraordinary medical dressings, and to bed.

It thus appears that the little patients are
pretty nearly made to play away their scrofula.
"Let us work away!" cry the afflicted
playmates, as they proudly barrow off the sand. The
wholesome sea influences are manifested by the
fact that children, after having been ill for four
or five years, have got well here in six or eight
weeks. At Berck there are two distinct
populations—the rope-makers and cord-spinners,
comparatively ill-conditioned; and the fishermen
and fishwomen, handsome, robust, and ruddy.
Advantage is taken of everything derived from
the sea; it is found that the so-called samphire,
really glasswort (Salicornia), used as a
vegetable, is a useful substitute for cod-liver oil.

It will be taken for granted that such an
establishment is provided with every requisite
room and office, with dining and work-rooms,
bath-rooms, wound-dressing-rooms, washhouses,
drying-houses, and infirmaries for boys and girls:
one just now occupied with cases of scrofulous
ophthalmia, requiring constant and careful
attendance on the part of the good Franciscan
nuns. Each dormitory has its washing-place
with a separate basin, numbered, for each
patient: separate towel, comb, brush, sponge, and
little bag of toilet articles hanging beneath it
against the wall. Between two dormitories is
a surveillance chamber, or glazed watch-room,
occupied by the sister on duty for the night.

It is the hour for the doctor to visit his
patients. Here they come to be visited, finding
their way up-stairs as well as they can: the
halt being helped on by those who have only
abscesses and sores; some limping, some scarred,
bloated, and swollen, but all powdered with
sand, and smiling, to be reviewed. Every
iron bedstead is numbered at the head, and
has a ticket bearing the occupant's name.
The temporary owner of the bed stands (when
he can stand) at the foot, and we pass very
leisurely between the double row of cheery
sufferers, followed by attendant sisters, note-book
in hand, with a kind word, a tap on the cheek,
an order, an admonition, or a joke, for each.
The poor little child who came in lately, like an
overgrown spider, with distended body and
meagre limbs, looks up and laughs, as it crawls
on the floor at the foot of its bed; hope is
dimpling in its mouth and chin. That womanly
thoughtful girl, sitting up in bed with the
enormously swelled knee, uncovers it complacently.
Ah! It hurts her to touch it! Very well; let
the plaister remain. She is recovering; she has
slept well, the last two nights. Yes; she says
with evident confidence in the future, she has
slept very well indeed. And these rosy cheeks,
and these laughing eyes, can they belong to sick
children? Ah, yes! They are all sick, have been
very sick, otherwise they would not be here.
This merry face, however, and that, will be sent
back to Paris next week, to gladden homes
relieved of a deep care.

And who are they that bear the great brunt of
the burden, from day to day, and from hour to
hour? Who, but the good Franciscan Sisters?
They have not withdrawn from the world to
meditate in solitude on religious mysteries; they do
not say too many prayers, nor repeat interminable
Aves and Paternosters; their life is a continued
prayer—of thanksgiving and beneficence. Doubtless
they will have their reward; for you may
read in their countenances that they have it
already. Adieu, Mother Superior! I thank you
heartily for the good work I have enjoyed the
privilege of seeing.

Works of real charity are sure to find followers
in the United Kingdom; the idea of sea-side
hospitals, for the reception of inland patients,
is good. It has been suggested that so excellent
a sanitary measure need not be confined
to children only, but may be advantageously
extended to adults. "Every large town
contains within itself another over-peopled town—
the hospital—to which the worn-out workman
retires, again and again, incessantly. He dies
young, leaving his family a charge on the
public. It would be much easier to prevent his
falling ill, than to cure him when once he is
really ill. The man for whom much may be
done, is not the man who is already sick, but
the man who is likely to become sick, in
consequence of the exhaustion of his strength. Ten
days' repose by the sea-side would set him right