“I’m sure,” said Mrs Doctor, warmly, “Grey shall not go to the altar without a little dowry of her own—eh, Henry?”
“To be sure, my dear!” said the doctor—“to be sure!”
“Nay, nay, nay!” cried old Stuart, showing his teeth; “hang your little dowries! I want something handsome down!”
“Oh, father!” cried Grey, turning scarlet with shame.
“You hold your tongue, child! I want the doctor to do something handsome for you out of his findings at Ophir—Solomon’s gold, Bolter. Ha, ha, ha!”
“Laugh away!” cried the doctor; “but I shall astonish you yet!”
“Gad, Bolter, ye will when ye mak’ anything out o’ that!” cried the little merchant. “Don’t let him run after shadows any more, Mrs Bolter. Well, Hilton, my boy, I won’t play with you,” he said, holding out his hand, as he spoke now, with Grey held tightly to his side, and the tears in his pale blue eyes. “I’m a pawkie, queer old Scot, but I believe my heart’s in the right place.”
“I’m sure—” began Hilton.
“Let me speak, my lad!” cried the old man. “I always said to myself that I should like the lad who wooed my little lassie here to love her for herself alone, and I believe you do. Hold your tongue a bit my lad! I’ve always been a careful, plodding fellow, and such a screw, that people always looked upon me as poor; but I’m not, Hilton: and thank Heaven, I can laugh at such a loss as that I have had! Heaven bless you, my lad! You’ve won a sweet, true woman for your wife; and let me tell you that you’ve won a rich one. My lassie’s marriage portion is twenty thousand pounds on the day she becomes your wife, and she’ll have more than double that when the doctor kills me some day, as I am sure he will.”
“Mr Stuart!” cried Hilton.