The circumstance which made my heart throb and caused me to shed tears copiously was that I was uncertain of being able to see this wonderful fairy of the stage. I knew beforehand that there would be no seat for one so insignificant as I was. The newspapers were printing column upon column about her, and I read everything that I could get hold of. The papers said that the seats were all bought up, and that not a hundredth part of those who wanted to see her would achieve their ambition. The box office was besieged by speculators. All that, alas! meant that there was scarcely any hope for me. I do not know whether Sarah had visited America before, for I had all along been on the road with little travelling companies in the Western States. So far as I was concerned this was positively her first visit. At last the famous day arrived. A steamer, with delegations and an orchestra aboard, went down the bay to meet her. All that impressed me greatly. I saw in it genuine homage rendered to genius. She had come at last. She was here. If I could only see her, even from a distance--from a great distance! But where and how? I did not know, and I kept on reading the papers, fairly intoxicating myself with the articles describing her. It seemed magic, unreality, a fairy tale. Finally she gave her first performance. The public and critics appeared to rave over her,--absolutely to rave. The actors and actresses of New York circulated a petition, begging her to give a matinee in order that they might honour her and observe her glorious art. Wonder of wonders, she accepted! My mind was quickly made up. Very recently come to New York, my mother and I were strangers in the big city. But fortunately I had plenty of courage without knowing it. When I learned that Sarah was going to play for the benefit of her fellow-artists, I said to my mother: “Well, now, I am going to see her.” “There are so many famous artists in New York,” my mother replied, “how do you suppose that you can get seats?” I had not thought of that, so I jumped up, saying: “Then I had better hurry up.” “How will you go about it?” asked my mother. I paused a moment to think the matter over. “I don’t know,” I replied, “but in some way or other I must see her. I am going to her theatrical manager.” “But he won’t receive you.” Of that I had not thought, either. But I would not hear of any obstacles. Besides, out West I had never been treated that way. I was not yet fully aware that people in the West were simpler and more approachable than in New York. The objection, therefore, did not appear to me a formidable one, and I started out with my mother, who always went with me and who obeyed me in everything without my having the faintest idea but that I was the obedient one.