"Well, you have picked up a fortune," observed Captain Craik. "It is not every man who finds a shipwreck a good investment."
"I know nothing about her fortune," I answered. "She did indeed tell me that her father was a ship-owner; but I have asked no questions, and only know her as Mary Robertson, a sweet, brave girl, whom I love, and, please God, mean to marry, though she possessed nothing more in the world than the clothes I found her in."
"Come, come," said the doctor.
"You're not a sailor, doctor," remarked Captain Craik, drily.
"But, my dear sir, you'll not tell me that a gold pound's not better than a silver sixpence?" cried the doctor. "Did you never sing this song?—
'Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms,
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms;
Oh, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms,
Oh, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms.
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher; then hey for a lass wi' a tocher;
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher; the nice yellow guineas for me.'
Is not an heiress better than a poor wench?"
"I don't see how your simile of the pound and the sixpence applies," answered Captain Craik. "A good woman is a good woman all the world over, and a gift that every honest man will thank God for.
'Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion
Round the wealthy titled bride;
But when compared with real passion,
Poor is all that princely pride.'
That's one of Robbie's too, doctor, and I commend your attention to the whole song as a wholesome purge."