(NOTE: _Here a portion of the logogram becomes indecipherable, owing, perhaps, to the passage of some large bird across the line of projection. What follows is the last recorded vibragraph to date._) --Yes, dear, I know I should have been more circumspect. I should have remembered my position, but I didn't. And that's why I'm engaged to be married.--You have to here, when you reach a certain point--I know you will think it a great come-down for one of us, but after all do we not owe something to our sister planets?-- THE UNEXPECTED LETTER As much as I dislike superlatives, I must confess that nothing in my life has given me greater surprise than that letter addressed to me in a firm but unfamiliar hand, face upward on the counter of a small curiosity shop in an insignificant by-street of a strange city. I have a weakness for such small shops, where one is commonly permitted to roam at will amid a multitude of attractive objects without the slightest obligation to buy, and the proprietors are often men of intelligence and education. When I have leisure I rarely resist the temptation to enter, and in this case the impulse had been almost mandatory. It was my first visit to Selbyville, and I may say that it will probably be my last; for I have never seen a duller, less interesting place. A bad connection had left me stranded at the railway station there, with several hours to be disposed of, as I feared, in aimless wanderings along streets and avenues each one more crude and commonplace than the last; but the chance discovery of a favorite haunt filled me at once with lively satisfaction. A dark and musty little shop, it proved to be, and its owner all I could have wished--a mild old Dickens person who had a virtuous pride in his collection, and at once divined in me a sympathetic listener. At first I followed him from case to case with unaffected interest and attention; but presently, I own, his conversation grew a trifle wearisome, and I allowed my thoughts to stray. He had produced, as I remember well, a tray of antique cameos, and to make room for it upon the counter brushed aside a litter of disordered papers. Neglected bills, they seemed to be, and circulars such as a careless man forgets to throw away. But I noted nothing more; for suddenly amid the trash my own familiar name confronted me, bold, clear, and unmistakable, across a large and square envelope of a bluish tint: "Josiah Brunson Dykefellow, Esq., 109 South Ninth Street, City."