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repeats to me the compliments they paid her, the offers they made, and her own witty, contemptuous replies, with the utmost naïveté. Poor child! she has been thrown on her own simple instincts for protection, for her mother was soon jealous of the attractions of her daughter, and removed her to a distance; but the real innocence of her heart, and a true attachment to a young ship's surgeon, seem to have supplied the place of her natural protectors. But true to her Parisian blood, she has coquetted from first to last, and she never talks to me now but I find it playing in every dimple. Think of it! she was given me as my 'Chief of Theory'! Now she asks me in the sweetest manner if I will come sometimes to her lessons, and explain to the girls what she does not understand. Poor child! I willingly oblige her.

But I must not weary you with my portrait gallery, my walls are covered with curious figures; let me sketch for you our 'vaccinations,' which take place every Tuesday at one o'clock. The numbers of the babies are distributed beforehand amongst the élèves who are to perform the operations; thus, 25 Ste. Marie to one, 32 Ste. Marthe to another, and so on. The élèves seek their babies and bring them into the Hall of the Nurses, a large upper room, full already of women and babies. A space is cleared by one of the windows, chairs placed; in the centre sits M. Blot, the director of the operation; I occupy a chair beside him. Mademoiselle, who superintends another division, stands beside, and then baby after baby is subjected to the awkward manœuvres of the élèves, to their utmost dissatisfaction. The babies are very ugly in their coarse hospital swaddling clothes; I never saw the little beings so enveloped before. They are just like mummies, but they perform a terrible concert altogether, with the voices of the élèves to help them. I sit a quiet spectator of the operation, occasionally addressing a