The Harding Opera House was starting to go. Flames from the large windows of the Temple of Honor and its projecting wooden balcony were leaping out and licking my favorite building, the Opera House. In the midst of the noise and confusion I got separated from the rest of the family and just stood, numb and helpless, my eyes filling with tears. The Opera House was a symbol to me—it made my secret ambition to be an actress seem more than a dream—and I had had thrilling afternoons there enjoying matinees of the many road companies as well as at our own McCourt Hall, which had been the theatrical center before the Opera House was built. Now both were going— I put my hands up to my eyes to shut out the sight. But the roar in my ears remained, and was just as heart-rending. Fascinated as if by a spell, I uncovered my eyes and stared. I couldn’t move. After hardly burning at all, the walls of the Opera House collapsed with a terrifying rumble that made the ground tremble. Thudding bricks rolled near me. The terrific heat at its sides had been too much for the great pile I adored. “You better not stand so close. It’s moving this way. Where’s all your family?” A man’s voice said behind me. I turned around but could hardly see through my tears. “You were wonderful,” he went on, “hauling that buggy away from your father’s store.” “Oh, I’m so upset—and it looks as if it never would stop. I’m afraid our houses will catch next—” Then the swirling crowd separated us and he was gone. The great blaze kept up till midnight, spotting the dark night with sudden flashes of red, and spreading over the whole town an ominous halo of light. For a long time I watched its destruction. It seemed the end of the world. The next morning, the heaviest gloom pervaded our breakfast table at my sister’s house, Mrs. Andrew Haben’s. “Well, Mama,” Papa said, “we’re just about cleaned out. I think I can borrow enough to build a new store—and it’ll be brick this time—two fires in one year are enough—but I don’t know what I’ll do to stock it. Or where we will live.” “You’ll manage somehow, Papa. You always have.” When we went down street, everyone was already outside estimating the damage, throwing dirt over a few smouldering places, and pulling debris out of the wreckage to see if there were any salvage value. You cannot imagine the spirit of that town! Hardly anyone was talking about losses. But on all sides there was earnest talk of dimensions and materials, for these eager people were impatient to get to work on their new buildings. Many families had lost their homes and had bunked in with friends, sitting up most of the night to tell of exciting side adventures that had befallen them that frightful day. As we came by, many of them ran out to repeat these stories to us.