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"I was yesterday markett-day at G., wear I ran suddennly agenst Peter Browne's eldest ladd. The boy openn'd his eyes wide, stearing like an owle; butt I gaive him bakk his looke with interrest, and tolde him if he was curiouse to know my name, I was Simon Lubchick, farmer, at his servise.
The pore simpel ladd arsk'd my pardonn humbly for having mistook me for a gentelman of Ullerton a frend of his father; on wich I gaive him a shillin, and we parted, vastly plesed with eche other; and this is nott the fust time the site of Ullerton fokes has putt me into a swett." Amongst later letters are very sad ones. The little M. is dead.
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