When I was eight years old (about six years after his last visit), my father made his appearance; and then, for the first time, I knew that my father was alive, for I was but two years old when he left, and I remembered nothing about him, and I had never heard my mother mention his name as if he still existed. My father came in one day very unexpectedly, for he had given no notice of his return; and it so happened that as he came in, my mother was beating me with the frying-pan, for having dipped my finger in the grease in which she had been frying some slices of bacon. She was very angry, and as she banged me with it, Virginia was pulling at her skirts, crying and begging her to desist, "You little wretch," cried my mother, "you'll be just such a sea-monster as your father was--little wulgar animal, you must put your finger into the frying-pan, must you? There, now you've got it." So saying, she put down the frying-pan, and commenced singing as loud as she could, "Hush-a-by, baby, Pussy's a lady." "Ay, now you're vexed, I dare say," continued she, as she walked into the back kitchen. All this time my father had been at the door looking on, which she had not perceived. My father then came in. "What's your name, my lad?" said he. "Tommy Saunders," replied I, rubbing myself; for the frying-pan was very hot, and my trousers very much out of repair. "And who is that little girl?" said he. "That's my sister Virginia--but," continued I, "who are you? Do you want my mother?" "Not very particularly just now," said my father, taking up my sister and kissing her, and then patting me on the head. "Do you want any beer or 'baccy?" said I. "I'll run and get you some, if you give me the money, and bring back your change all right." "Well, so you shall, Jack, my boy," replied he; and he gave me a shilling. I soon returned with the pipes, tobacco, and beer, and offered him the change, which he told me to keep, to buy apples with. Virginia was on the knee of my father, who was coaxing and caressing her, and my mother had not yet returned from the back kitchen. I felt naturally quite friendly toward a man who had given me more money than I ever 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.