"All the strange happenings of the past months have strangely unnerved me. I cannot understand things, 'I dunno where I are,' as that curious catch-saying of the nineteenth century put it. I live like a man in a troubled dream, a night-mare. Several members of our church have been taken, and I, who prided myself on my strict churchmanship, have been left behind. My boon companion, the rector of our parish, a man who always seemed to me to be the beau ideal clergyman, he too is left, and is as puzzled and angry as I am. I think he is more angry and mortified than I am, because his pride is hurt at every point, since, as the Spiritual head (nominally at least) of this parish, he has not only been passed over by this wonderful translation of spiritual persons, but being left behind he has no excuse to offer for it. "The curate of our church and his wife, whom we always spoke of as being 'a bit _peculiar_,' they disappeared when the others did. By the bye, Bastin, good fellow, what constitutes '_peculiarity_,' in this sense? It seems to me now, that to be out and out for God--as that good fellow and his wife were, as well as one or two others in our parish--is the real peculiarity of such people. God help us, what fools we have been! "Our village shopkeeper, a dissenter, and a much-vaunted _local_ preacher, is also left behind, but his wife was taken. A farmer, a member of our own church, who used to invite preachers down from the Evangelization Society, London, is gone, but his wife, a strict churchwoman like myself--but a rare shrew--is left. "But to come to the chief object of my letter, I am afraid you will be sorry--though perhaps not altogether unprepared for what I have to say--'_I have sold the 'Courier._' It may be the only daily paper, (as you wrote me the other day) that 'witnesses for righteousness,' but my mind is too harrassed by all this mysterious business of the _Translation_ of men and women, to think of anything else but the future, and what it will bring. I have sold the paper to Lucien Apleon (through one of his agents, of course, since now that he is made Emperor of this strangely constituted confederation of kings and countries) he cannot be expected to personally transact so small a piece of business as the purchase of a daily paper." Ralph lowered the letter-sheet, a moment, and a weary little smile crept into his face. "I might have guessed that Apleon would have done this," he mused, "if he is, as I believe, the Anti-christ!" He lifted the letter again, and read on: "He wanted to take possession at once, and give me 5,000 pounds extra as a retiring fee for you. But I was obstinate on this point, and told his agent that he could not have possession until a month from today.