Had an unhappy marriage never come within her knowledge, Leonhard asked, which the lot had seemed to sanction? She had been thinking of that, Mistress Anna acknowledged. There had, certainly--she could not deny it. But it was where the parties had not seriously tried to make the best of everything. Was it necessary, then, he asked--even when the lot decided favorably--that people should _put up_ with each other, and find it not easy to keep back sharp words which would edge their way out into hearing in spite of all efforts to keep them back? Must people providentially yoked together find themselves called upon, just like others, to make sacrifices of temper and taste and opinion all through life? Wasn't that going on everywhere? she asked. Did he know of any people anywhere who agreed so well about everything that there was never a chance of dispute? And where was there such an abundance of everything that there was no occasion for self-sacrifice? Leonhard laughed at these questions, and Mistress Anna looked wise, but she did not laugh. Leonhard might not be the providential substitute for a lover providentially removed, but at least he was a pleasant companion for a troubled hour. He had thought so much on this subject, possibly he had some experimental knowledge. Had he a wife?--Not yet, he said. But he would have.--Oh, of course: what would a man do in this world without a wife? Perhaps it would not trouble him to think of the one he would like to marry if he might.--No, not in the least.--And he would be satisfied to decide for himself, and not ask any counsel?--Was he not the one who must live with the lady? and was it likely that anybody would know as well as himself what he wanted?--Only, she suggested, how could he feel certain that he would have what he wanted, after all?--What! hadn't a man eyes?--That can be trusted, my dear?--If he can't trust his own, will he trust another man's?--But can he feel sure that what he wants would be best for him?--Is the best he can imagine any too good for a man, if he can get it? But she has been thinking, How happened it that father should have found his very name in the birthday book? She has been thinking of it nearly all the morning. When she first set eyes on him--did he know?--she felt sure that he belonged to them. Leonhard did not know about the name. He felt very grateful to her for her kindness. He hoped the book had shown him the writing of his ancestor, but he did not know. His parents died when he was a little boy, and if he had any relatives alive, they were unknown to him. He should be glad to believe that the Herrnhuter was his grandfather or great-grandfather. But they must not ask him to run the risk of losing his chance if there should be a young lady whom he might wish to marry: he could not trust any voice in such a matter except hers.