“And I suppose,” said Sandie, “the devil a one of them has one sixpence to rub against another?”
“Mebbe not,” said Fanny. “But, Fanny—”
“Well, Sandie?”
“I—I really don’t know what I was going to say, but I’ll sing it.”
Sandie had a splendid voice and a well-modulated one.
“My love is like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June;
My love is like a melody,
That’s sweetly played in tune.
“As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I;
And I will love you still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas go dry.
“Till a’ the seas go dry, my lass,
And the rocks melt with the sun;
Yes, I will love you still, my dear,
Till sands of life are run.”
The tears were coursing down the bonnie lassie’s cheeks, so plaintive and sweet was the melody.
“What! ye’re surely not crying, are ye?” said Sandie, approaching and stretching one arm gently round her waist.
“Oh, no, Sandie; not me!”
But Sandie took the advantage, and kissed her on the tear-bedewed cheeks.