tears ran into one big one, that had joy's red lovely light. Molly had told him that she thought more of him than of all the splendours of Weimar.
One year went by, then two, then three; and in all that time there came two letters. The first was brought by a carrier, the second by a traveller. It was a hard journey, a long road winding past towns and villages.
How often had not Anthony and Molly listened together to the story of Tristan and Isolde, and just so often he had likened himself to Tristan, although the name meant "born in sorrow," which he himself certainly was not; nor would he ever have to say, as Tristan did, "She has forgotten me!" But yet Isolde had not really forgotten the friend of her heart, and when they were both dead, and buried side by side in the churchyard, two linden trees grew out of their graves high over the church roof, and mixed their flowering branches there. That was so pretty, thought Anthony, but so sad! but it could never be sad with him and Molly, and he whistled a verse of the Minnesinger, Walther von der Vogelweide:—
"Under the linden tree,
There by the heath."
And this, too, he thought so beautiful—
"Out in the woods, in the quiet dale,
Tandaradai!
Sang to himself a nightingale!"
This verse was always in his head, and he sang and whistled it one moonshiny night as he, on horseback in the deep-sunk road, set off for Weimar to visit Molly;
