At about three o'clock the carriage comes again, and they begin to go home. Now, cannot you fancy what a new world this is to the children? Before they went to school they knew nothing about the world they lived in, or about history, or about plants and animals. They had nothing to think of to make them forget their pain. They could just sleep or lie still all day, like little animals. Now they are bright and happy. If by any chance they cannot go to school, or the carriage does not come, they cry bitterly. There are other schools begun now like this one, so perhaps in time all the children who are invalids can go to school. Of course, there are some cases where a child is too ill to attend any school, and then it must go to a hospital. There is one of these hospitals in Chelsea, and it looks out over the great gray river Thames. It is a large red-brick house, and boys and girls who can never get well can be taken in here and made comfortable, and saved as much pain as possible. It is a beautiful house, and it is very sad, but happy, too, to see the children, and how bright they look. They wear little red flannel jackets when they sit up in bed, and have a tray put across the bed, and upon it for them to play with are the toys that kind people have sent. The rooms are divided into two parts, for boys and girls, and the children are received between the ages of three and ten, so there are no tiny babies here. The large windows are down to the ground, so the children can see what is going on outside, and I will tell you what they see: first, the Embankment; I have told you about that. It is like a broad road, and taxi-cabs and bicycles and many other things are always passing and repassing. Then the river, up which the salt sea tide rolls every day, and when the weather is very cold and stormy the gray and white sea-gulls fly inland up the river, and wheel and scream; and when people throw bread for them they dart down upon it and catch it before it can touch the water, so quick are they.