There were others, again, who came to talk and learn more about the Indians, whom they knew had gone away. Among such was one day the "jolly fat dame," who stepped in merely to have a little chat with Daniel; and, as will be seen, she was lucky in finding him alone, and just in the humour to talk with her. There happened to be no cart or carriage passing at the moment, to prevent me from healing her melodious voice, as she entered, and rolled along, with her parasol swinging in her hand.--"Well, Daniel" (who happened to be at the farther end of the room), "I am so lucky to find you all alone for once, for you always have such a possee around you! Daniel, you know you and I have always agreed very well." "Yes, madam, I don't know why you and I should have a falling-out." "Ah, well, we'll drop that, Daniel--I believe I'll take a chair, I am so fatigued with those plaguy stairs. Well, oh, but what a wonderful collection this is--Ha? what a curiosity that man is--Mr. Catlin, I mean--what a life he _has_ led, to be sure! Don't you think he has been married to some of those little squaws? I'll be bound he has." "No, madam, I should doubt whether he has. I think Mr. Catlin went into the Indian country, determined to make this collection and to immortalize himself; and I have many a time heard him say that he resolved never to get into any difficulty with them about their women; and I think it was one reason why he succeeded, and was everywhere treated with friendship." "Ah, well! may be so. But, look ye, Daniel; that's been a sad affair with poor Cadotte, has it not? what a foolish man, ha!" "Why, I don't see that it was so foolish on his part as on that of the girl." "Oh, tush! but she's a silly little thing. She's pretty enough; but what's that to such a man as Cadotte? She's no substance. He's a giant, almost--what a grip!--I never felt the like in my life! Ah, well, I am sorry--I felt quite an interest in Cadotte." "I feel more sorry for the foolish girl," said Daniel, "for falling in love with him--it was all her doing--she would have him, and wouldn't take 'No' for an answer. I never saw the like in my life. She seemed crazy for him; and they both cried like children about it for weeks, and he was good for nothing else. She has got him now; and, as I said before, I pity her, for she don't know what country she is going to, nor what society she will have instead of that of her parents, and sisters, and friends in London. The girl don't know what she will come to, and therefore I pity her."