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.