have
no doubt they are strangers who never met before."

"Impossible!"

"Nothing more probable; people who meet on short journeys and voyages
like this, often throw aside the restraints imposed by society, and act
and talk in a manner which would be severely censured in circles where
they are known. Were you never favoured by the autobiography of a
fellow-traveller in a stage-coach?"

"Yes often, and thought it very odd that any one should reveal so much
of their private history to a stranger."

"It is a common occurrence, originating in the vanity of persons who
love to make themselves and their affairs the subject of conversation;
and if they can but obtain listeners, never stop to question who or
what they are."

"Ah, I remember getting into a sad scrape," said Flora, "while
travelling from S---- to London in a stage-coach. It was one of these
uncomfortable things which one hates to think of for the rest of a life,
and yet so ridiculous that one feels more inclined to laugh over it than
to cry, though I believe (for I was but a girl at the time), I did both.

"My fellow-passengers were three gentlemen, one, to whom I was well
known, the others perfect strangers. One of the latter, a very
well-dressed but rather foppish, conceited young man, talked much upon
literary matters, and from his conversation gave you to understand that
he was on the most intimate terms with all the celebrated authors of the
day. After giving us a very frank, and by no means just critique upon
the works of Scott and Byron, whom he familiarly called, 'my friend,
Sir Walter,' 'my companion, Lord Byron,' he suddenly turned to me, and
asked me, 'if I ever read the S. Chronicle?' This was one of the county
papers, I told him; that I saw it every week.

"'If that be the case,' said he, 'will you tell me what you think of
the Rev. Mr. B.'s poems, which have from time to time appeared in its
columns?'

"This reverend gentleman was a man with a very heavy purse and a very
empty head, whose contributions to the county papers were never read but
to be laughed at. Not having the slightest personal knowledge of the
author, I answered innocently enough, 'Oh, he's a stupid, conceited
fellow. It is a pity he has not some friend to tell him what a fool he
makes of himself, whenever he appears in print. His poetry is such dull
trash, that I am certain he must pay the Editor of the paper for
allowing him to put it in.'

"Mr. C. was stuffing his han