There was a beautiful simplicity in the heart of Apollos—an almost maidenly delicacy. He shrunk from intruding upon the fair object of his thoughts, never once did he speak with her, or seek to claim her acquaintance. She was to him something too divine to approach, and he worshiped her at a distance—a star whose beams blended with the music of his soul. There was no vanity hid away in his brain; he saw himself as others saw him—a rough, ungainly figure, without comeliness or proportion, and the more did he strive to cultivate those inward graces by which even his ugliness was made to be forgotten.
How little did Linda dream, as she sometimes passed him in her walks, what a great heart throbbed for her, and would have poured out its life-blood in her service.
The summer following Paul Davis revisited his birth-place, and for the first time for many years he and Linda met again. In form and feature both were changed—but in both the heart remained the same, and the same affinity which had in childhood bound them, now by a closer and dearer tie united them.
But Mr. Howell’s other four daughters had all married rich men; and as Linda was the fairest and most accomplished, he had planned for her a match which might be considered brilliant. When, therefore, Paul asked for her hand, it was refused with the contempt of one who feels that riches, not affection and kindness make up the summum bonum of life’s happiness, and with whom the weight of the purse out-balances the weight of both head and heart. And then Pride, too, put in her voice—what, his daughter marry the son of Leonard Davis, who died in a jail! To be sure, he understood that Paul was doing a very good business in the editorial line; but then a mere editor—a drudge for the public—bah!
And so Paul was scornfully dismissed, and returned to the city, yet bearing with him the sworn faith of her he loved.
Smiles faded from the cheek of Linda, and her voice now seldom sent its glad notes to cheer the heart of Apollos. He saw she was pale, and that her step was listless. He felt she was unhappy, and now, in addition to his own grief, he bore about with him the pain of knowing that she, too, had sorrows which he could not heal. He would have had her so happy. Around her path only thornless roses should have clustered, and how gladly would he have shielded her from all the storms of life.
Ah, poor Apollos! if it could have been; if, like the great branches of the oak which shelter the timid daisy from sun and rain, those great arms of thine would have enfolded this little flower—then, indeed, would thy big soul have leaped with gladness.
Months passed on.
Paul worked at his desk patiently, and hoping that by some favor of fortune he might yet claim the hand of Linda.