"Are we writing in the sacred birthday book?"

"Not yet," said Leonhard hastily, the color rising to his face in a
way to suggest forked lightning somewhere beyond sight.

"You have wanted ink, and are too kind to let me know," she said. "I
emptied the bottle copying music for the children yesterday."

"The ink was put to a better use then than I could have found for it
this morning," said Leonhard.

And Mrs. Loretz, who looked into the room just then, said to herself,
as her eyes fell on him, "Poor soul! he is in trouble."

In fact, this thought was in Leonhard's mind as he went into breakfast
with the family: "A deuced good friend I have proved--to Wilberforce!
Isn't there anybody here clear-eyed enough to see that it would be
like forgery to write my name down in a book of friendship?"

The morning meal was enlivened by much more than the usual amount of
talk. Leonhard was curious to know about Herrnhut, that old home
of Moravianism, and the interest which he manifested in the history
Loretz was so eager to communicate made him in turn an object of
almost affectionate attention. That he had no facts of private
biography to communicate in turn did net attract notice, because,
however many such facts he might have ready to produce, by the time
Loretz had done talking it was necessary that the day's work should
begin.