But it was not that which withheld me. As I thought of the tone in which my friend had replied, it seemed to me sullen, rather than deeply angry or wounded--resentment at my opinion not of her character so much as of his choice! Then I began to be sorry for the fool, and schemed for a while how to intervene. But have you ever tried intervention? I soon abandoned the idea, and took a way to be forgiven, and to learn more. “Lin,” I began, slowing my horse, “you must not think about what I said.” “I'm thinkin' of pleasanter subjects,” said he, and slowed his own horse. “Oh, look here!” I exclaimed. “Well?” said he. He allowed his horse to come within about ten yards. “Astonishment makes a man say anything,” I proceeded. “And I'll say again you're too good for her--and I'll say I don't generally believe in the wife being older than the husband.” “What's two years?” said Lin. I was near screeching out again, but saved myself. He was not quite twenty-five, and I remembered Mrs. Taylor's unprejudiced computation of the biscuit-shooter's years. It is a lady's prerogative, however, to estimate her own age. “She had her twenty-seventh birthday last month,” said Lin, with sentiment, bringing his horse entirely abreast of mine. “I promised her a bear-skin.” “Yes,” said I, “I heard about that in Buffalo.” Lin's face grew dusky with anger. “No doubt yu' heard about it,” said he. “I don't guess yu' heard much about anything else. I ain't told the truth to any of 'em--but her.” He looked at me with a certain hesitation. “I think I will,” he continued. “I don't mind tellin' you.” He began to speak in a strictly business tone, while he evened the coils of rope that hung on his saddle.