Thank Heaven, I never married!" stole his chair by degrees,
with rough, silent kindness, nearer and nearer to mine. Jessie, after a
moment's hesitation, vacated her place next, and, saying that she wanted
to sit close to one of us on the farewell night, took a chair at Owen's
side. Sad! sad! we had instinctively broken up already, so far as our
places at the table were concerned, before the reading of the last story
had so much as begun.

It was a relief when Owen' s quiet voice stole over the weary silence,
and pleaded for our attention to the occupation of the night.

"Number Six," he said, "is the number that chance has left to remain
till the last. The manuscript to which it refers is not, as you may see,
in my handwriting. It consists entirely of passages from the Diary of a
poor hard-working girl--passages which tell an artless story of love
and friendship in humble life. When that story has come to an end, I may
inform you how I became possessed of it. If I did so now, I should only
forestall one important part of the interest of the narrative. I have
made no attempt to find a striking title for it. It is called, simply
and plainly, after the name of the writer of the Diary--the Story of
Anne Rodway."

In the short pause that Owen made before he began to read, I listened
anxiously for the sound of a traveler's approach outside. At short
intervals, all through the story, I listened and listened again. Still,
nothing caught my ear but the trickle of the rain and the rush of the
sweeping wind through the valley, sinking gradually lower and lower as
the night advanced.

BROTHER OWEN'S STORY of ANNE RODWAY.

[TAKEN FROM HER DIARY.]

...MARCH 3d, 1840. A long letter today from Robert, which surprised
and vexed me so that I have been sadly behindhand with my work ever
since. He writes in worse spirits than last time, and absolutely
declares that he is poorer even than when he went to America, and that
he has made up his mind to come home to London.

How happy I should be at this news, if he only returned to me a
prosperous man! As it is, though I love him dearly, I cannot look
forward to the meeting him again, disappointed and broken down, and
poorer than ever, without a feeling almost of dread for both of us. I
was twenty-six last birthday and he was thirty-three, and there seems
less chance now than ever of our being married. It is all I can do to
keep myself by my needle; and his prospects, since he f