In returning from Tunis I came by way of Malta and Naples, where I got an Orient steamer which brought me to Plymouth. It was in sailing through the Straits of Messina on my way to Naples that I met with one of those strange--but by no means rare--coincidences that prove the smallness of the world, or, at least, of that part of it with which any one man is acquainted. I was sitting on the upper deck of the steamer, gazing at Etna, as its snow-shrouded peak was revealed in the brilliant moonlight, when a chance fellow-traveller began to talk about the coincidences so common in foreign travel. I told him that one of my strangest experiences of the kind was the following. In the previous September I was staying at the Hotel Belle Vue at The Hague, and after dinner one evening went into the reading room to get a peep at the _Times_. A pleasant-looking elderly gentleman was reading it when I entered. Perhaps he saw the look of disappointment on my face when I found that the coveted journal was engaged. At any rate, he very courteously offered it to me, and by way of opening a conversation drew my attention to an article it contained about the Liverpool docks. When I had glanced through the paper he resumed the conversation about Liverpool, and asked if I knew many persons in that city. I was compelled to admit that I knew only one, a Liverpool clergyman named Postance, my acquaintance with him being of the slightest. "Ah," said my friend, "if you know the Reverend Henry Postance, you have possibly heard him speak of his son Alfred?" I replied that I knew Alfred Postance better than I knew his father, and that I had, as a matter of fact, travelled to Malta with him shortly before his death, which took place in that island. "Then," pursued my interlocutor, "since you knew Alfred Postance, you might like to read a little sketch of his life that has been written by a friend. I think I could procure the loan of a copy for you." I thanked the gentleman for his offer, but explained that it was not necessary that I should avail myself of it, as Mr. Postance senior had already sent me a copy of the work in question. The old gentleman's eyes glistened when I said this, and with an air of some pride he said: "Since you have read that little book, you will, I am sure, be interested to know that it was I who published it." "Well, I am rather interested," I replied, "because it was I who wrote it." This was the story which I chanced to tell on the deck of the steamboat to my unknown fellow-traveller. I had no sooner finished it than he said, "Then you are Mr. Wemyss Reid. Your account of Alfred Postance was the last thing I read before leaving my home in Malta." The double coincidence was certainly rather startling, and it was increased when I found that I and this second stranger had on the same day visited the grave of Alfred Postance at Valetta for the same purpose--to pluck a spray of flowers to send to his father in Liverpool. Yes, the world _is_ small!