hey said Lady Halle was beautiful, but her beauty was that of a
tempting fiend. Saint Elizabeth, the tutelar saint of the land, the
pious princess of Thuringia, whose good deeds have been immortalized
in so many places through stories and legends, had greater beauty
and more real grace. Her picture hung in the chapel, surrounded by
silver lamps; but it did not in the least resemble Molly.

The apple-tree, which the two children had planted, grew year
after year, till it became so large that it had to be transplanted
into the garden, where the dew fell and the sun shone warmly. And
there it increased in strength so much as to be able to withstand
the cold of winter; and after passing through the severe weather, it
seemed to put forth its blossoms in spring for very joy that the
cold season had gone. In autumn it produced two apples, one for
Molly and one for Anthony; it could not well do less. The tree after
this grew very rapidly, and Molly grew with the tree. She was as fresh
as an apple-blossom, but Anthony was not to behold this flower for
long. All things change; Molly's father left his old home, and Molly
went with him far away. In our time, it would be only a journey of a
few hours, but then it took more than a day and a night to travel so
far eastward from Eisenbach to a town still called Weimar, on the
borders of Thuringia. And Molly and Anthony both wept, but these tears
all flowed together into one tear which had the rosy shimmer of joy.
Molly had told him that she loved him--loved him more than all the
splendors of Weimar.

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 h