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Page 18
"And who sorts your grandmother's scraps?"
"We do," said they.
"And who sets breakfast, and puts my things in order?"
"We do," said they.
"But when do you do it?" asked the Tailor.
"Before you come down," said they.
"But I always have to call you," said the Tailor.
"We get back to bed again," said the boys.
"But how was it you never did it before?" asked the Tailor doubtfully.
"We were idle, we were idle," said Tommy.
The Tailor's voice rose to a pitch of desperation--
"But if you did the work," he shouted, "_where is the Brownie?_"
"Here!" cried the boys, "and we are very sorry that we were Boggarts so
long."
With which the father and sons fell into each other's arms and fairly
wept.
* * * * *
It will be believed that to explain all this to the Grandmother was not
the work of a moment. She understood it all at last, however, and the
Tailor could not restrain a little good-humoured triumph on the
subject. Before he went to work he settled her down in the window with
her knitting, and kissed her.
"What do you think of it all, Mother?" he inquired.
"Bairns are a blessing," said the old lady tartly, "_I told you so._"
* * * * *
"That's not the end, is it?" asked one of the boys in a tone of dismay,
for the Doctor had paused here.
"Yes, it is," said he.
"But couldn't you make a little more end?" asked Deordie, "to tell us
what became of them all?"
"I don't see what there is to tell," said the Doctor.
"Why, there's whether they ever saw the Old Owl again, and whether
Tommy and Johnnie went on being Brownies," said the children.
The Doctor laughed.
"Well, be quiet for five minutes," he said.
"We'll be as quiet as mice," said the children.
And as quiet as mice they were. Very like mice, indeed. Very like mice
behind a wainscot at night, when you have just thrown something to
frighten them away. Death-like stillness for a few seconds, and then
all the rustling and scuffling you please. So the children sat holding
their breath for a moment or two, and then shuffling feet and smothered
bursts of laughter testified to their impatience, and to the difficulty
of understanding the process of story-making as displayed by the
Doctor, who sat pulling his beard, and staring at his boots, as he made
up "a little more end."
"Well," he said, sitting up suddenly, "the Brownies went on with their
work in spite of the bottle-green suit, and Trout's luck returned to
the old house once more. Before long Tommy began to work for the
farmers, and Baby grew up into a Brownie, and made (as girls are apt to
make) the best house-sprite of all. For, in the Brownie's habits of
self-denial, thoughtfulness, consideration, and the art of little
kindnesses, boys are, I am afraid, as a general rule, somewhat
behindhand with their sisters. Whether this altogether proceeds from
constitutional deficiency on these points in the masculine character,
or is one result among many of the code of bye-laws which obtains in
men's moral education from the cradle, is a question on which everybody
has their own opinion. For the present the young gentlemen may
appropriate whichever theory they prefer, and we will go back to the
story. The Tailor lived to see his boy-Brownies become men, with all
the cares of a prosperous farm on their hands, and his girl-Brownie
carry her fairy talents into another home. For these Brownies--young
ladies!--are much desired as wives, whereas a man might as well marry
an old witch as a young Boggartess."
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