glittered under the pent-house of his thick eyebrows, that, in
striking contrast to the snow-white of his hair, were black in hue, as
tempered steel glitters in a curtained room. It was those eyes, in
conjunction with sundry little peculiarities of temper, that had
earned for the old man the title of "Devil Caresfoot," a sobriquet in
which he took peculiar pride. So pleased was he with it, indeed, that
he caused it to be engraved in solid oak letters an inch long upon the
form of a life-sized and life-like portrait of himself that hung over
the staircase in the house.

"I am determined," he would say to his son, "to be known to my
posterity as I was known to my contemporaries. The picture represents
my person not inaccurately; from the nickname my descendants will be
able to gather what the knaves and fools with whom I lived thought of
my character. Ah! boy, I am wearing out; people will soon be staring
at that portrait and wondering if it was like me. In a very few years
I shall no longer be 'devil,' but 'devilled,'" and he would chuckle at
his grim and ill-omened joke.

Philip felt his father's eyes playing upon him, and shrunk from them.
His face had, at the mere thought of the consequences of his
chastisement of his cousin, lost the beauty and animation that had
clothed it a minute before; now it grew leaden and hard, the good died
away from it altogether, and, instead of a young god bright with
vengeance, there was nothing but a sullen youth with dull and
frightened eyes. To his son, as to most people who came under his
influence, "Devil" Caresfoot was a grave reality.

Presently the picture in the doorway opened its mouth and spoke in a
singularly measured, gentle voice.

"You will forgive me, Philip, for interrupting your _tete-a-tete_, but
may I ask what is the meaning of this?"

Philip returned no answer.

"Since your cousin is not in a communicative mood, George, perhaps you
will inform me why you are lying on your face and groaning in that
unpleasant and aggressive manner?"

George lifted his blood-stained face from the stones, and, looking at
his uncle, groaned louder than ever.

"May I ask you, Philip, if George has fallen down and hurt himself, or
if there has been an--an--altercation between you?"

Here George himself got up and, before Philip could make any reply,
addressed himself to his uncle.

"Sir," he said, "I will answer for Philip; there _has_ been an
altercation, and he in the scuffl