This Sunday morning Mrs. D. and I have been to service at the Foundling Hospital, a place I have never before visited, although I have often, in passing, looked inquisitively through the iron railings at the immense block of buildings at the top of Great Coram Street. Hogarth has painted the portrait of Thomas Coram, the old sailor who endowed the hospital, and the picture hangs in the gallery there. A kindly gentleman he looks, with ruddy smiling face which may well be the index of a heart large enough to hold the big family he fathers. That family sits in the galleries of the church on each side of the organ, the girls in their white caps and aprons to the right, to the left the boys in their funny uniform of brown cloth, with red waistcoats and twinkling brass buttons. "Love children!" It always seems to me, by the way, that the term is an aspersion against the institution of marriage. Why can't _all_ children be "love children"? It is a touching sight, and Mrs. D., who is very soft-hearted, was visibly affected. The cherubic face of the smallest of the children certainly finds out the chink in the armour of even an old bachelor like myself. Mrs. D. said the boys looked like robin redbreasts in their cut-away coats and red waistcoats, and there certainly is something of the perkiness of that bird in the little round heads above the white collars and black bows. I noticed that Mrs. D.'s attention was focussed on the boys. The poor old lady lost two sons in the war, and I expect she was seeing them again as small boys in some of those youngsters in the red waistcoats. For myself, it was the girls who distracted my attention from prayers and psalms. Those small maidens with their burnished hair under the white caps, their rosy faces and primly clasped hands! How well drilled they were, and how well behaved! No fidgeting or giggling, not even any wandering glances in _my_ direction. One's eyes travelled along the tiers of faces and figures, noting the variety of types. No two children wore their uniform in quite the same way. The cap and apron on some seemed a badge of servitude, on others the prettiest of adornments, suggestive of musical comedy. Those same aprons play a quaint part in the ritual of the service when, during prayers, the children raise the aprons and hide their small countenances behind them. The demure gesture has a savour of bygone times, and is no doubt as old as the institution. As we left our seat in the gallery we met, face to face, the brown-clad boys clattering down the stairs opposite. They all wore trousers, big and little, and one of the smallest of them took a joyous slide over the tiled pavement of the ambulatory. No doubt he was glad to be out of church, and was looking forward to his dinner. We shared his pleasant anticipations. It was the prospect of seeing him and his companions feed which had brought Mrs. D. and myself to the hospital that morning, and the sight well rewarded us for the journey.