“Very nice,” said the Old Owl.  “But what”—­and she shook herself more fiercely than ever, and glared so that Tommy expected nothing less than that her eyes would set fire to her feathers and she would be burnt alive.  “But what must I say of the Boggarts?  Those idle urchins who eat the bread-and-milk, and don’t do the work, who lie in bed without an ache or pain to excuse them, who untidy instead of tidying, cause work instead of doing it, and leave little cares to heap on big cares, till the old people who support them are worn out altogether.”

“Don’t!” said Tommy.  “I can’t bear it.”

“I hope when Boggarts grow into men,” said the Old Owl, “that their children will be Boggarts too, and then they’ll know what it is!”

“Don’t!” roared Tommy.  “I won’t be a Boggart.  I’ll be a Brownie.”

“That’s right,” nodded the Old Owl.  “I said you were a boy who could understand when one spoke.  And remember that the Brownies never are seen at their work.  They get up before the household, and get away before any one can see them.  I can’t tell you why.  I don’t think my grandmother’s great-grandmother knew.  Perhaps because all good deeds are better done in secret.”

“Please,” said Tommy, “I should like to go home now, and tell Johnnie.  It’s getting cold, and I am so tired!”

“Very true,” said the Old Owl, “and then you will have to be up early to-morrow.  I think I had better take you home.”

“I know the way, thank you,” said Tommy.

“I didn’t say show you the way, I said take you—­carry you,” said the Owl.  “Lean against me.”

“I’d rather not, thank you,” said Tommy.

“Lean against me,” screamed the Owl.  “Oohoo! how obstinate boys are to be sure!”

Tommy crept up very unwillingly.

“Lean your full weight, and shut your eyes,” said the Owl.

Tommy laid his head against the Old Owl’s feathers, had a vague idea that she smelt of heather, and thought it must be from living on the moor, shut his eyes, and leant his full weight, expecting that he and the Owl would certainly fall off the beam together.  Down—­feathers—­fluff—­he sank and sank, could feel nothing solid, jumped up with a start to save himself, opened his eyes, and found that he was sitting among the heather in the malt-loft, with Johnnie sleeping by his side.

“How quickly we came!” said he; “that is certainly a very clever Old Owl.  I couldn’t have counted ten whilst my eyes were shut.  How very odd!”

But what was odder still was, that it was no longer moonlight, but early dawn.

“Get up, Johnnie,” said his brother, “I’ve got a story to tell you.”

And while Johnnie sat up, and rubbed his eyes open, he related his adventures on the moor.

“Is all that true?” said Johnnie.  “I mean, did it really happen?”

“Of course it did,” said his brother; “don’t you believe it?”