"I gave a bound and a rush that carried me half across the stage before the manager caught me, and so, I made my first entrance on the stage, and danced and marched and sang with the rest, and all unconsciously took my first step on the path that I was to follow through shadow and through sunshine--to follow by steep and stony places, over threatening bogs, through green and pleasant meadows--to follow steadily and faithfully for many and many a year to come." To the surprise of every one, when salary day came around the new ballet girl did not go to claim her week's pay. Even on the second she was the last one to appear at the box-office window. Mr. Ellsler himself was there, and he opened the door and asked her to come in. As she signed her name, she paused so noticeably that he laughed, and said, "Don't you know your own name?" The fact was, on the first day of rehearsal, when the stage-manager had taken down all names, he called out to the latest comer, who was staring at the scenery and did not hear him: "Little girl, what is your name?" Some one standing near him volunteered: "Her name is Clara Morris, or Morrissey or Morrison, or something like that." At once he had written down _Morris_--dropping the last syllable from her rightful name. So when Mr. Ellsler asked, "Don't you know your name?" it was the moment to have set the matter straight, but the young person was far too shy. She made no reply, but signed up and received two weeks' salary as Clara Morris, by which name she was known ever afterward. In her story of life on the stage, she says, "After having gratefully accepted my two weeks' earnings, Mr. Ellsler asked me why I had not come the week before. I told him I preferred to wait because it would seem so much more if I got both weeks' salary all at one time. He nodded gravely, and said, 'It was rather a large sum to have in hand at one time,' and though I was very sensitive to ridicule, I did not suspect him of making fun of me. Then he said: "'You are a very intelligent little girl, and when you went on alone and unrehearsed the other night, you proved you had both adaptability and courage. I'd like to keep you in the theater. Will you come and be a regular member of the company for the season that begins in September next?' "I think it must have been my ears that stopped my ever-widening smile, while I made answer that I must ask my mother first. "'To be sure,' said he, 'to be sure! Well, suppose you ask her then, and let me know whether you can or not.'"