“No—it is a kindness I do not feel authorised to ask from any one—it would involve me at once in obligations which I might not be able to fulfill—no, dearest Linda, I must toil on a few more years, and if my labors are followed with the same success which has heretofore crowned them, I shall have earned, even in your father’s estimation, the rich reward I would fain this moment call my own,” replied Paul. Loving Linda as he did so faithfully, it was impossible that Apollos could listen to this conversation without a struggle between envy and the natural kindness of his heart. It is true, he knew before that his love was hopeless—that the young and fair object of his adoration could be no more to him than the distant planet shining so gloriously in the glittering dome of the heavens—but here stood one possessing that priceless gift, her heart, one on whom her first pure affections were bestowed—ah, poor Apollos—it was not in human nature to resist the workings of jealousy and envy—great drops of anguish stood on his pale brow, and he almost groaned aloud! Then better and nobler feelings stirred his bosom—he gave way to their healthful promptings, and a load seemed lifted from his breast. Paul parted with Linda at her father’s gate and went home to his lodgings, where he had not been long seated, when an ill-written, almost illegible note was handed him. It was from Apollos Dalrymple, requesting earnestly to see him before he should leave the village. “Some old debt, doubtless, of my poor father’s, which I am required to pay,” thought Paul. “Well, I will go and see him, and if in my power it shall be canceled.” As he drew near the dwelling of Apollos, the strains of the fiddle seemed to welcome him on, and knocking at the door it was opened by the owner himself—his great chin holding firm to his breast the neck of the instrument, and his hand wielding the bow. Walking before him into a small back room, he made signs for him to be seated, and then taking up the air where the summons of Paul had interrupted it, he played it deliberately through! Paul thought this proceeding very rude, to say the least of it—but if he could have read the heart of Apollos, he would have seen that he was only striving to lull into peace by the soothing powers of melody those rebellious and evil passions which the sight of his happier rival called forth. At length, carefully hanging up the fiddle on a peg at his right hand, Apollos opened a small drawer, and taking out a pocket-book, put it into the hand of his astonished visiter. “I reckon there is just two thousand dollars there—it is yours,” he said, bluntly. “I guess you’ll make a pretty straight bargain with that man that wants to sell out.” Paul sat speechless with surprise at finding his affairs thus known to the strange man before him. Apollos arose, went to the window, and began to whistle, then added in a husky voice,