"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 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 shew you the way, I said take you—carry you," said the Owl. "Lean against me."
"I'd rather not, thank you," said Tommy.