Before Jessie
stood a mighty china punch-bowl of the olden time, containing the folded
pieces of card, inside which were written the numbers to be drawn, and
before Owen reposed the Purple Volume from which one of us was to read.
The walls of the room were hung all round with faded tapestry; the
clumsy furniture was black with age; and, in spite of the light from the
sconces, the lofty ceiling was almost lost in gloom. If Rembrandt could
have painted our background, Reynolds our guest, and Hogarth ourselves,
the picture of the scene would have been complete.

When the old clock over the tower gateway had chimed eight, I rose
to inaugurate the proceedings by requesting Jessie to take one of the
pieces of card out of the punch-bowl, and to declare the number.

She laughed; then suddenly became frightened and serious; then looked
at me, and said, "It was dreadfully like business;" and then entreated
Morgan not to stare at her, or, in the present state of her nerves, she
should upset the punch-bowl. At last she summoned resolution enough to
take out one of the pieces of card and to unfold it.

"Declare the number, my dear," said Owen.

"Number Four," answered Jessie, making a magnificent courtesy, and
beginning to look like herself again.

Owen opened the Purple Volume, searched through the manuscripts,
and suddenly changed color. The cause of his discomposure was soon
explained. Malicious fate had assigned to the most diffident individual
in the company the trying responsibility of leading the way. Number Four
was one of the two narratives which Owen had found among his own papers.

"I am almost sorry," began my eldest brother, confusedly, "that it has
fallen to my turn to read first. I hardly know which I distrust most,
myself or my story."

"Try and fancy you are in the pulpit again," said Morgan, sarcastically.
"Gentlemen of your cloth, Owen, seldom seem to distrust themselves or
their manuscripts when they get into that position."

"The fact is," continued Owen, mildly impenetrable to his brother's
cynical remark, "that the little thing I am going to try and read is
hardly a story at all. I am afraid it is only an anecdote. I became
possessed of the letter which contains my narrative under these
circumstances. At the time when I was a clergyman in London, my church
was attended for some months by a lady who was the wife of a large
farmer in the country. She had been obliged to come to town, and to
remain ther