“I’m glad to hear you say so, father.”

“Yes, Tom.  And then, you see, when I was afloat, I didn’t think any good of your mother, and I was glad to keep out of her way; and then I didn’t care about my children, for I didn’t know them; but now I’ve other thoughts, Tom.  I don’t think your mother so bad, after all; to be sure, she looks down upon me ’cause I’m not genteel; but I suppose I aren’t, and she has been used to the company of gentlefolk; besides she works hard, and now that I don’t annoy her by getting tipsy, as I used to do, at all events she’s civil; and then I never knew what it was to have children until I came here, and found Virginia and you; and I’m proud of you both, and love you both better than anything on earth; and, although I may not be so well brought up or so well taught as you both are, still, Tom, I’m your father, and all I can say is, I wish for your sakes I was better than I am.”

[Illustration:  JACK AND HIS FATHER UNDER THE COLONNADE.—­Marryat, Vol X., p. 289.]

“Don’t say so, father.  You know that Virginia and I are both as fond of you as you are of us.”

“Well, mayhap you are; I don’t say no.  You are both good children, and at all events would try to like me; but still I do feel that you can’t look up to me exactly; but that’s my misfortune, Tom, more than my fault.  I haven’t larning like Anderson, or gentility like your mother.  I’ve only a true heart to offer to you.  You see, Tom, I’ve said all this because you are always after Anderson; not but that I like Anderson, for he’s a good man, and has been of sarvice to me, and I don’t think he would ever say anything to you that would make you think less of me.”

“No, indeed, father; on the contrary, I once asked him his opinion about you, and he spoke most highly of you; and whenever I go to him for advice, he always sends me to you to approve of what he has said.”

“Well, he is a good man, and I’m very sorry to have any feeling of envy in me, that’s the truth; but still a father must have a father’s feelings.  Don’t let us say anything more about it, Tom; only try next time, when you want advice, whether I can’t give it.  You can always go to Peter afterward, and see whether I’m right or wrong.”

“I will indeed, my dear father, now I know that you wish it.”

I never felt so warm toward my father as after this conversation; there was so much affection toward me, and yet so much humility shown by him, as respected himself, that I was quite touched with it, and I began to think that he really had had occasion to complain, and that I had not treated him with that respect which he deserved.

“Now, Tom, I’ve something to say to you.  When Anderson, Bramble, and I were taking a pipe together last night, Bramble said that he had a letter from the captain of the Indiaman, offering you a berth on board as guinea-pig, or midshipman.  He said that he had not shown it to you as yet, because it was of no use, as he was sure you would not accept it.  Well, Anderson and I said that at least you ought to know it, and have the refusal; and your mother pricked up her ears and said that it was much more genteel than being a pilot; so I now put the question to you.’