Such were Anthony‘s thoughts as he stood under the tree， and during many a long nightas he lay in his lonely chamber in the wooden house in Hauschen Street， Copenhagen， in theforeign land to which the rich merchant of Bremen， his employer， had sent him on conditionthat he should never marry. “Marry! ha， ha!” and he laughed bitterly to himself at thethought.
Winter one year set in early， and it was freezing hard. Without， a snowstorm made everyone remain at home who could do so. Thus it happened that Anthony‘s neighbors， who livedopposite to him， did not notice that his house remained unopened for two days， and that hehad not showed himself during that time， for who would go out in such weather unless hewere obliged to do so. They were gray， gloomy days， and in the house whose windows werenot glass， twilight and dark nights reigned in turns. During these two days old Anthony hadnot left his bed， he had not the strength to do so. The bitter weather had for some timeaffected his limbs. There lay the old bachelor， forsaken by all， and unable to help himself. Hecould scarcely reach the water jug that he had placed by his bed， and the last drop was gone.It was not fever， nor sickness， but old age， that had laid him low. In the little corner，where his bed lay， he was over-shadowed as it were by perpetual night. A little spider，which he could however not see， busily and cheerfully spun its web above him， so that thereshould be a kind of little banner waving over the old man， when his eyes closed. The timepassed slowly and painfully. He had no tears to shed， and he felt no pain; no thought ofMolly came into his mind. He felt as if the world was now nothing to him， as if he were lyingbeyond it， with no one to think of him. Now and then he felt slight sensations of hunger andthirst; but no one came to him， no one tended him. He thought of all those who had oncesuffered from starvation， of Saint Elizabeth， who once wandered on the earth， the saint ofhis home and his childhood， the noble Duchess of Thuringia， that highly esteemed lady whovisited the poorest villages， bringing hope and relief to the sick inmates. The recollection ofher pious deeds was as light to the soul of poor Anthony. He thought of her as she wentabout speaking words of comfort， binding up the wounds of the afflicted and feeding thehungry， although often blamed for it by her stern husband. He remembered a story told ofher， that on one occasion， when she was carrying a basket full of wine and provisions， herhusband， who had watched her footsteps， stepped forward and asked her angrily what shecarried in her basket， whereupon， with fear and trembling， she answered， “Roses， which Ihave plucked from the garden.” Then he tore away the cloth which covered the basket， andwhat could equal the surprise of the pious woman， to find that by a miracle， everything inher basket—the wine， the bread— had all been changed into roses.
In this way the memory of the kind lady dwelt in the calm mind of Anthony. She was as aliving reality in his little dwelling in the Danish land. He uncovered his face that he might lookinto her gentle eyes， while everything around him changed from its look of poverty andwant， to a bright rose tint. The fragrance of roses spread through the room， mingled withthe sweet smell of apples. He saw the branches of an apple-tree spreading above him. It wasthe tree which he and Molly had planted together. The fragrant leaves of the tree fell upon himand cooled his burning brow; upon his parched lips they seemed like refreshing bread andwine; and as they rested on his breast， a peaceful calm stole over him， and he felt inclinedto sleep. “I shall sleep now，” he whispered to himself. “Sleep will do me good. In the morning Ishall be upon my feet again， strong and well. Glorious! wonderful! That apple-tree， plantedin love， now appears before me in heavenly beauty.” And he slept.
the following day， the third day during which his house had been closed， the snow-stormceased. Then his opposite neighbor stepped over to the house in which old Anthony lived， forhe had not yet showed himself. There he lay stretched on his bed， dead， with his old nightcaptightly clasped in his two hands. The nightcap， however， was not placed on his head in hiscoffin; he had a clean white one on then. Where now were the tears he had shed? What hadbecome of those wonderful pearls? They were in the nightcap still. Such tears as these cannotbe washed out， even when the nightcap is forgotten. The old thoughts and dreams of abachelor‘s nightcap still remain. Never wish for such a nightcap. It would make your foreheadhot， cause your pulse to beat with agitation， and conjure up dreams which would appearrealities.
the first who wore old Anthony‘s cap felt the truth of this， though it was half a centuryafterwards. That man was the mayor himself， who had already made a comfortable home forhis wife and eleven children， by his industry. The moment he put the cap on he dreamed ofunfortunate love， of bankruptcy， and of dark days. “Hallo! how the nightcap burns!” heexclaimed， as he tore it from his bead. Then a pearl rolled out， and then another， andanother， and they glittered and sounded as they fell. “What can this be? Is it paralysis， orsomething dazzling my eyes?” They were the tears which old Anthony had shed half a centurybefore.
To every one who afterwards put this cap on his head， came visions and dreams whichagitated him not a little. His own history was changed into that of Anthony till it became quite astory， and many stories might be made by others， so we will leave them to relate their own.We have told the first; and our last word is， don‘t wish for a “bachelor’s nightcap.”