reached my ears. Then came a moment with which few in life can compare
--the one when I again inhaled draughts of the pure air of heaven.

I now felt that my hair was stained with blood, which had flowed from a
wound in my head, but I had no time to think of it, for people crowded
around me saying all sorts of pleasant things. The architect, Winzer,
was most cordial of all. His words, "I approve of such foolhardiness,
Herr Ebers," echoed in my ears long afterwards.

A beam had fallen on my head, but my thick hair had broken the force of
the blow, and the wound in a few days began to heal.

My companion in peril was at my side, and as my blood-stained face looked
as if my injuries were serious he invited me to his house, which was
close by the scene of the accident. On the way we introduced ourselves
to each other. His name was Hering, and he was the prompter at the
theatre. When the doctor who had been sent to me had finished his task
of sewing up the wound and left us, an elderly woman entered, whose rank
in life was somewhat difficult to determine. She wore gay flowers in her
bonnet, and a cloak made of silk and velvet, but her yellow face was
scarcely that of a "lady." She came to get a part for her daughter; it
was one of the prompter's duties to copy the parts for the various
actors.

But who was this daughter?

Fraulein Clara, the fair Amalie of The Robbers, the lovely leading lady
of the theatre.

My daughter has an autograph of Andersen containing the words, "Life is