The events that happen to us in life gather themselves together in particular groups, each group separated in some degree from that which follows and that which goes before, but yet each united, in its own several parts, by some strong bond of connexion, and each by a finer and less apparent ligament attached to the other groups that surround it.  In short, if, as the great poet moralist has said, “All the world is a stage, and all the men and women in it only players,” the life of each man is a drama, with the events thereof divided into separate scenes, the scenes gathered into grand acts, and the acts all tending to the great tragic conclusion of the whole.  Happy were it for man if he, like a great dramatist, would keep the ultimate conclusion still in view.

In the life of Wilton Brown, the scene of the robbers ended with the words which we have just said were spoken by his travelling companion, and a new scene was about to begin.

The elderly gentleman to whom the carriage apparently belonged, took a step forward as the stranger spoke the last sentence, exclaiming, “Surely I am not mistaken—­Sir John Fenwick, I believe.”  The stranger pulled off his hat and bowed low.  “The same, your grace,” he replied:  “it is long since we have met, and I am happy that our meeting now has proved, in some degree, serviceable to you.”

“Most serviceable, indeed, Sir John,” replied the Duke, shaking him warmly by the hand; “and how is your fair wife, my Lady Mary? and my good Lord of Carlisle, and all the Howards?”

“Well, thank your grace,” replied Sir John Fenwick, “all well.  This, I presume, is your fair daughter, my Lady.”

“She is, sir, she is,” interrupted the Duke:  “you have seen her as a child, Sir John.  But pray, Sir John, introduce us to your gallant young friend, to whom we are also indebted for so much.”

“He must do that for himself,” replied Sir John Fenwick:  “we are but the companions of the last half hour, and comrades in this little adventure.”

Although accustomed to mingle with the best society; and, in all ordinary cases, free and unrestrained in his own manners, Wilton Brown felt some slight awkwardness in introducing himself upon the present occasion.  He accordingly merely gave his name, expressing how much happiness he felt at the opportunity he had had of serving the Duke; but referred not at all to his own station or connexion with the Earl of Sunbury.

“Wilton Brown!” said the Duke, with a meaning smile, and gazing at him from head to foot, while he mentally contrasted his fine and lofty appearance, handsome dress, and distinguished manners, with the somewhat ordinary name which he had given.  “Wilton Brown! a nom de guerre, I rather suspect, my young friend?”

“No, indeed, my lord,” replied Wilton:  “were it worth anybody’s while to search, it would be found so written in the books of Christchurch.”