The night came. Cornered, check-mated, I slowly signed the paper, wiped the pen, closed the inkstand, and set it aside. He stood like a statue. The silence reached the house. I stretched out my arms and rested my crossed hands lightly on the table. I met his glance a moment, then, with a curling lip, let my eyes sweep slowly down length of body to boot-tip and back again, rose slowly, made a little "pouf" with lips and wave of hand, and contemptuously drawled: "My friend, you are a fool!" while, swift and sharp, came the applause Mr. Davenport at least had anticipated. The act ended almost immediately, and I hurried to him, crying: "Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Davenport. I never, never could have found applause in a speech like that."

"Ah, it was the business, child, not the speech. Always try to find good business."

"Suit the action to the word?" I laughed.

"Yes," he answered, "and remember, Miss, actions speak louder than words, too! But, my dear, it's a comfort to teach you anything; and when I saw you trying so carefully to follow directions to-night, I swear I almost prayed for the applause you were so honestly earning. You are a brick, my girl! oh, I don't mean one of those measly little common building bricks—I mean a great lovely Roman tile!"

And when, in God's good time, success came to me, as I entered the green-room at the Fifth Avenue one evening, a tall man in a gray suit released himself from a bevy of pretty women, and coming over to me, held out his hands, saying: "Did I ever make any remarks to you about building materials?" and, laughingly, I answered: "Yes, sir, you said something about bricks some years ago."

And while I ran away to change, he called after me: "Say, 'Jones's Baby' isn't on to-night, is it?" and immediately began to tell about Emilia, and such is the power of imagination that he declared "She raged up and down behind the scenes crying 'Murder,' till the very house broke loose, and right through all the pealing of the bells high and clear, you heard her voice topping everything!"

I was resting and getting breath while the bell clanged, remember, but so much for human memory.

It is strange how often the merest accident or the utterance of a chance word may harden wavering intentions into a fixed resolve. Though I am not aggressive, there is in me a trace of bull-dog tenacity, made up of patient endurance and sustained effort. Rather slow to move, when I am aroused I simply cannot let go my hold while breath is in me, unless I have had my will, have attained my object.

Perhaps people may wonder why I retained my anomalous position in that theatre—why I did not follow the advice of some of the lady stars, who gave me a kindly thought and word now and then. And at the risk of giving them a poor opinion of my wisdom, I present the reason that actuated me. One day at rehearsal, while waiting for the stage to be reset, several of the actresses gossiped about theatrical matters. One had a letter from a friend who announced her advance to "first walking lady," which turned the talk to promotion generally, and laughingly she asked me: "What line of business shall you choose, Clara, when your turn comes?" but before I could reply, the eldest woman present sneered: "Oh, she can save herself the trouble of choosing; if she's ever advanced it will be in some other city than this."

I was astonished; I had just made one of my small hits, and had a nice little notice in the paper, but it did not occur to me that envy could sustain itself, keeping warm and strong and bitter on such slight nourishment as that. And then, she of the letter, answered: "Why, Clara's getting along faster than anyone else in the company, and I shall expect to see her playing leading business before so very many seasons pass by."