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One， two， three years went by， and during the whole time he received only two letters. One came by the carrier， and the other a traveller brought. The way was very long and difficult， with many turnings and windings through towns and villages. How often had Anthony and Molly heard the story of Tristan and Isolda， and Anthony had thought the story applied to him， although Tristan means born in sorrow， which Anthony certainly was not； nor was it likely he would ever say of Molly as Tristan said of Isolda， “She has forgotten me.” But in truth， Isolda had not forgotten him， her faithful friend； and when both were laid in their graves， one， on each side of the church， the linden-trees that GREw by each grave spread over the roof， and， bending towards each other， mingled their blossoms together. Anthony thought it a very beautiful but mournful story； yet he never feared anything so sad would happen to him and Molly， as he passed the spot， whistling the air of a song， composed by the minstrel Walter， called the “Willow bird，” beginning—
“Under the linden-trees，Out on the heath.”
One stanza pleased him exceedingly—
“Through the forest， and in the vale，Sweetly warbles the nightingale.
This song was often in his mouth， and he sung or whistled it on a moonlight night， when he rode on horseback along the deep， hollow way， on his road to Weimar， to visit Molly. He wished to arrive unexpectedly， and so indeed he did. He was received with a hearty welcome， and introduced to plenty of grand and pleasant company， where overflowing winecups were passed about. A pretty room and a good bed were provided for him， and yet his reception was not what he had expected and dreamed it would be. He could not comprehend his own feelings nor the feelings of others； but it is easily understood how a person can be admitted into a house or a family without becoming one of them. We converse in company with those we meet， as we converse with our fellow-travellers in a stage-coach， on a journey； we know nothing of them， and perhaps all the while we are incommoding one another， and each is wishing himself or his neighbor away. Something of this kind Anthony felt when Molly talked to him of old times.
“I am a straightforward girl，” she said， “and I will tell you myself how it is. there have been GREat changes since we were children together； everything is different， both inwardly and outwardly. We cannot control our wills， nor the feelings of our hearts， by the force of custom. Anthony， I would not， for the world， make an enemy of you when I am far away. Believe me， I entertain for you the kindest wishes in my heart； but to feel for you what I now know can be felt for another man， can never be. You must try and reconcile yourself to this. Farewell， Anthony.”
Anthony also said， “Farewell.” Not a tear came into his eye； he felt he was no longer Molly‘s friend. Hot iron and cold iron alike take the skin from our lips， and we feel the same sensation if we kiss either； and Anthony’s kiss was now the kiss of hatred， as it had once been the kiss of love. Within four-and-twenty hours Anthony was back again to Eisenach， though the horse that he rode was entirely ruined.
“What matters it？” said he； “I am ruined also. I will destroy everything that can remind me of her， or of Lady Halle， or Lady Venus， the heathen woman. I will break down the apple-tree， and tear it up by the roots； never more shall it blossom or bear fruit.”
the apple-tree was not broken down； for Anthony himself was struck with a fever， which caused him to break down， and confined him to his bed. But something occurred to raise him up again. What was it？ A medicine was offered to him， which he was obliged to take： a bitter remedy， at which the sick body and the oppressed spirit alike shuddered. Anthony‘s father lost all his property， and， from being known as one of the richest merchants， he became very poor. Dark days， heavy trials， with poverty at the door， came rolling into the house upon them like the waves of the sea. Sorrow and suffering deprived Anthony’s father of his strength， so that he had something else to think of besides nursing his love-sorrows and his anger against Molly. He had to take his father‘s place， to give orders， to act with energy， to help， and， at last， to go out into the world and earn his bread. Anthony went to Bremen， and there he learnt what poverty and hard living really were. These things often harden the character， but sometimes soften the heart， even too much.
How different the world， and the people in it， appeared to Anthony now， to what he had thought in his childhood！ What to him were the minstrel‘s songs？ An echo of the past， sounds long vanished. At times he would think in this way； yet again and again the songs would sound in his soul， and his heart become gentle and pious.
“God‘s will is the best，” he would then say. “It was well that I was not allowed to keep my power over Molly’s heart， and that she did not remain true to me. How I should have felt it now， when fortune has deserted me！ She left me before she knew of the change in my circumstances， or had a thought of what was before me. That is a merciful providence for me. All has happened for the best. She could not help it， and yet I have been so bitter， and in such enmity against her.”
