shaggy poodle lay couched in leonine fashion at
her feet, munching a handsome though fractured fan. A well-directed kick
of her dainty little slippered foot sent the sacrilegious animal flying
on the entrance of the two invaders. This was Mademoiselle Helene
Devereux, a young lady who twirled her toes for a salary scarcely less
than that of the President of the United States. French by birth, she
spoke English with a pure accent. She seemed much amused at the errand
of her masculine visitor.

"You want to see a _premiere_ at home? Look at me now, dyeing my own
hair. And see that dress there. I made it every bit myself. I get up
every morning at 8. Some of the other lazy things in the house never
think of breakfast till 10. But I turn out at 8; eat some breakfast; do
all my mending; sort out my washing; go to rehearsal; practise new
dances; come home to lunch; drive out to the Park; eat my dinner; go to
the theatre; eat my supper, and go straight to bed. Can anybody live
more properly? I don't think it possible. Mrs. Sullivan says I'm a
model. I don't give her the least bit of trouble, and she wouldn't part
with me for anything. You ought to have been here just now, and seen
little Vulfi of the "Melodeon." She makes $100 a night, and yet she
doesn't dress any more stylishly than Mrs. Sullivan; and she never bought
a jewel in her life. She supports a mother, and sends a brother to
college in Florence. You people think we are fast. That's all nonsense.
It is only the little dancers, _la canaille_, who can afford to be
dissipated. I can't, I know that. I'm too tired after the theatre to
think of going out on a spree, as they call it. Besides, it doesn't do
for a dancer to be too cheap. It hurts her business.'

"'Devereux's nice, isn't she?' said Miss Bell. 'She's very good, and
she's plucky. A fellow once followed her home from rehearsal, chirping
to her all the way. She said nothing, but went right on into the livery
stable next door. The fellow went in after her, and she snatched a
carriage whip out of the office, and, oh my! didn't she thrash him?
Nobody interfered, and she whipped him till her arm ached. Ever since
then she's been receiving dreadful letters, and so has Mrs. Sullivan.
She can't find out who sends them, and she's never seen the fellow
again.'"

LXXVII. THE POOR OF NEW YORK.

I. THE DESERVING POOR.

Poverty is a terrible misfortune in any city. In New York it i