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"What's this?" says Tom, staring at it blankly. "Ye won't blame me, Mac," answers Mr. Jarrott, somewhat ashamed of his role of process-server. "'Tain't none of my doin's." "Read it, Davy," said Tom, giving it to me. I stopped the mill, and, unfolding the paper, read. I remember not the quaint wording of it, save that it was ill-spelled and ill-writ generally.

"What's this?" says Tom, staring at it blankly. "Ye won't blame me, Mac," answers Mr. Jarrott, somewhat ashamed of his role of process-server. "'Tain't none of my doin's." "Read it, Davy," said Tom, giving it to me. I stopped the mill, and, unfolding the paper, read. I remember not the quaint wording of it, save that it was ill-spelled and ill-writ generally.

Excuse this ill-writ note, for the paper is bad and I'm no sure o' my English when it's guid. Your obedient servant and loving guid friend, I pulled the dab of mud close to my elbow and read it again. In part it was plain enough. That Maclachlan was madly in love with Margaret had become almost a matter of common gossip.

Was some maid, in barton, byre, or dairy, thinking of him but now with an ill-writ letter in her bosom, a letter beginning with "I now take up my pen to right you these few lines hopping they find you the same which they now leave me at present" according to right tradition and proper custom, and continuing to speak of homesick longings, dreams of furlough, promotion, marrying "on the strength," and retirement to green fair Dorset Dear on a Sergeant-Major's pension?