possessed in my life; and I took my stool and sat beside him; while,
with my sister on his knee, and his porter before him, my father smoked
his pipe.

"Does your mother often beat you, Jack?" said my father, taking the pipe
out of his mouth.

"Yes, when I does wrong," replied I.

"Oh! only when you do wrong--eh?"

"Well, she says I do wrong; so I suppose I do."

"You're a good boy," replied my father. "Does she ever beat you, dear?"
said he to Virginia.

"Oh, no!" interrupted I; "she never beats sister, she loves her too
much; but she don't love me."

My father puffed away, and said no more.

I must inform the reader that my father's person was very much altered
from what I have described it to have been at the commencement of this
narrative. He was now a boatswain's mate, and wore a silver whistle hung
round his neck by a lanyard, and with which little Virginia was then
playing. He had grown more burly in appearance, spreading, as sailors
usually do, when they arrive to about the age of forty; and, moreover,
he had a dreadful scar from a cutlass wound, received in boarding, which
had divided the whole left side of his face, from the eyebrow to the
chin. This gave him a very fierce expression; still he was a