But in Paris, should your pocket be empty and your room sordid, you need only saunter into the clear, vivacious air to find yourself within walking distance of every charming point of the radiant city. Between her broad and winding river, Paris lies, a two-volumed tale of romance; on every leaf, as you turn it, matters for musing and rapture, life around you full to overflowing,—the life that has been lived still vivid to remembrance, not clothed in sadness, but in the gracious gaiety of tradition. The scenes of dead hours are animated with floating suggestions. In the Marais, with all these neat, alert workwomen, well hosed, hair alluringly dressed, contented with their lot, which is laborious and frugal, so long as they can brighten it with laughter and the customary joys of beautiful objects which abound here on all sides,—who is to weep for the days of old, and the great historic dames who made its ancient glory? You remember the great ladies of yore, and you are thankful for the sight of the sympathetic workwomen of to-day, and greet them with a tributary smile. For it is the women of Paris who create the better part of its living charm, whether in the populous quarters, where they toss their morning greetings to each other, or to their swains, along the freshly awakened faubourgs and clean streets, with their shining runlets of water which you must dexterously jump,
