He was in such raptures when he was told that the owl was to be his very own, that when the tea was brought in he could hardly be persuaded to touch it. Pennie, too, almost forgot her troubles in the excitement of pouring out tea, and settling with Ambrose where the owl was to live.
“The nicest place will be,” at last said Ambrose decidedly, “in that corner of the barn just above where Davie’s rabbits are. You know, Pennie. Where it’s all dusky, and dark, and cobwebby.”
“I think that sounds just the sort of place he would feel at home in,” said their father; “and now, would you like me to tell you where I got him?”
“Oh, yes, please, father,” said Ambrose, letting his head drop on Mr Hawthorn’s shoulder with a deep sigh of contentment. “Tell us every little scrap about it, and don’t miss any.”
“Well, last night, about nine o’clock, when I was writing in the study, I wanted to refer to an old book of sermons, and I couldn’t remember where it was. I looked all over my book-cases, and at last I went and asked mother, and she told me that it was most likely put away in the garret.”
Ambrose stirred uneasily, and Pennie thought to herself, “They said I wasn’t to mention the garret, and here’s father talking about it like anything.”
“So I took a lamp,” continued Mr Hawthorn, “and went upstairs, and poked about in the garret a long while. I found all sorts of funny old things there, but not the book I wanted, so I was just going down again when I heard a rustling in one corner—”
Pennie could see that Ambrose’s eyes were very wide open, with a terrified stare as if he saw something dreadful, and he was clinging tightly with one hand to his father’s coat.
“So I went into the corner and moved away a harp which was standing there, and what do you think I saw? This little fluffy gentleman just waked up from a nap, and making a great fuss and flapping. He was very angry when I caught him, and hissed and scratched tremendously; but I said, ‘No, my friend, I cannot let you go. You will just do for my little son, Ambrose.’ So I put him into a basket for the night, and this morning I got a cage for him in the village, and here he is.”
Mr Hawthorn looked down at Ambrose as he finished his story: the frightened expression which Pennie had seen had left the boy’s face now, and there was one of intense relief there. He folded his hands, and said softly, drawing a deep breath: