The small dressmaker is another pleasing picture of the humbler walks of Paris. The _grisette_ I deem to be as extinct as the dodo, while the class of work-girl I have in view may be supposed to step out of her rank. But the novelist who would try to turn her into copy for Musset or Mürger would be all abroad. She earns her bread honestly and diligently in the skilful exercise of her art, with a band of juvenile needle-women round her who ought to be playing in the fields, but who, instead, are content to sit in a tiny workroom and sew and snip all day. Nothing more dignified, more modest, more self-respecting than all this young world, seemingly unaware of any reasons for dissatisfaction. The youthful mistress exercises her authority with good-humour and gentleness, and her willing little workers appear really fond of her. It is in Paris that I have become converted to Tolstoi’s belief that the humble class is the _vrai grand monde_, a thousand times more interesting and instructive, worthier of our admiration, than the wealthy and educated classes. The deeper you penetrate into these obscure lives, the deeper you feel a sense of humiliation by confrontation with the futility of education, breeding, blood,—the accepted adjuncts of superiority. The poor and humble of the world are inarticulate, and they live and die unconscious of the heroism of their existence. But the average woman of the people gathers more virtue into a single day than the educated woman, who enjoys the priceless benefits of leisure, space, and ease, spreads over a week. Mark the gaiety and content with which she will toil for inadequate pay, rising early, resting late, with few pleasures, fewer distractions, maintaining through all her never-ending trials a dignity of bearing, an ideal of honesty, an incomparable altitude of disinterestedness that should shame us for the idle price we put upon birth and education. Let us pick out of the crowd one figure of the small dressmaker Dickens or Daudet might have made a charming study of. I have been observing her life now for some years with friendly interest, and have not found a flaw in it. She is good to look upon, a supple French figure, clear skin, pretty features, reddish soft eyes, and red hair a painter would delight to paint. Young, too, with winning manners, she would not have far to look for assistance in her difficulties with term-day, work-girls, and other expenses. Her father, an invalid, and her mother live in a suburb, and she dwells alone all the week in a somewhat squalid flat near the Bon Marché, her own protector, and needing none other; such is her indestructible purity. No well-born girl could show a more delicate reserve towards men than this pretty French dressmaker, no nun could reveal herself less of a flirt. Her sole desire is to please her customers and extend her connexion, to work early and late, sometimes into the small hours of the morning; and her sole distraction, after a