In passing through the shrubberies, on their way back to the house, they suddenly came upon a stolid-looking lad of about fifteen, emerging from a side-walk with a nest full of young blackbirds in his hand.  Now, if there was one thing in this world more calculated than another to rouse the most objectionable traits of the old squire’s character into rapid action, it was the discovery of boys, and more especially bird-nesting boys, in his plantations.  In the first place, he hated trespassers; and in the second, it was one of his simple pleasures to walk in the early morning and listen to the singing of the birds that swarmed around.  Accordingly, at the obnoxious sight he stopped suddenly, and, drawing himself up to his full height, addressed the trembling youth in his sweetest voice.

“Your name is, I believe—­Brady—­Jim Brady—­correct me if I am wrong—­ and you have come here, you—­you—­young—­villain—­to steal my birds.”

The frightened boy walked slowly backwards, followed by the old man with his fiery eyes fixed upon his face, till at last concussion against the trunk of a great tree prevented further retreat.  Here he stood for about thirty seconds, writhing under the glance that seemed to pierce him through and through, till at last he could stand it no longer, but flung himself on the ground, roaring: 

“Oh! don’t ee, squire; don’t ee now look at me with that ’ere eye.  Take and thrash me, squire, but don’t ee fix me so!  I hayn’t had no more nor twenty this year, and a nest of spinxes, and Tom Smith he’s had fifty-two and a young owl.  Oh! oh!”

Enraged beyond measure at this last piece of information, Mr. Caresfoot took his victim at his word, and, ceasing his ocular experiments, laid into the less honourable portion of his form with the gold-headed malacca cane in a way that astonished the prostrate Jim, though he was afterwards heard to declare that the squire’s cane “warn’t not nothing compared with the squire’s eye, which wore a hot coal, it wore, and frizzled your innards as sich.”

When Jim Brady had departed, never to return again, and the old man had recovered his usual suavity of manner, he remarked to his son: 

“There is some curious property in the human eye; a property that is, I believe, very much developed in my own.  Did you observe the effect of my glance upon that boy?  I was trying an experiment on him.  I remember it was always the same with your poor mother.  She could never bear me to look at her.”

Philip made no reply, but he thought that, if she had been the object of experiments of that nature, it was not very wonderful.

Shortly after their return home he received a note from Miss Lee.  It ran thus: 

 “My dear Philip,