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In the camp was a beautiful girl named Mā-mĭn´—the Wing—whom all the young men wished to marry, but perhaps Red Robe loved her more than all the rest. Her father was a rich old medicine man who never invited any except chiefs and great warriors to feast with him, and Red Robe seldom entered his lodge. He used to dress as well as he could, to braid his hair carefully, to paint his face nicely, and to stand for a long time near the lodge looking entreatingly at her as she came and went about her work, or fleshed a robe under the shelter of some travois over which a hide was spread. Then whenever they met, he thought the look she gave him in passing was friendly—perhaps more than that. "It was rather better than I anticipated, thank you," not in the haughty tone adopted by her half an hour ago, but, in an unnerved and frightened whisper. Here the old woman at the fire, who has been getting up and down from her three-legged stool during the past few minutes, and sniffing at the pot in an anxious manner, gives way to a loud sigh of relief. Lifting the pot from its crook, she lays it on the earthen floor..

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Mr. Rodney, basely forsaking the donkey, returns to his mutton. "There must be a dressmaker in Dublin," he says, "and we could write to her. Don't you know one?" "Can you tell how many days you have travelled?" Then his daughter mourned in sorrow. "Oh! Ah! Ni-nah-ah! Oh! Ah! Ni-nah-ah!"—Ah, my father, my father. "Our 'pretty Jane,' on occasions, can talk as much nonsense as—as any woman I ever met," says Geoffrey,—the hesitation being full of filial reverence; "and that may be called, I think, unqualified praise.".