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.

The father's poor aching heart proclaims its anguish in very simple words: "_Nov_.

1751.