him to go up and down the long stone staircase to the great
eating-room. There never was anybody so kind as the little old monk.

A pair of young doves were hatched in the nest, and when the sun shone
in at the window, the young man used to sit in his dressing-gown, with a
pillow in his chair, and look down into the cypress-tree where the
turtle-doves' nest was; he would sit for hours and look at them, and
many beautiful thoughts passed through his mind as he did so. Never had
his heart been so full of love as now. The little old monk used to sit
on a low seat before him, waiting for the time when he asked for his
violin, which was a great happiness for them both. The musician loved
the old monk very much, and often, when he played, he desired to pour
bright and comfortable thoughts into his innocent soul.

It was the end of March; the turtle-doves were all preparing for their
flight to England; the pair that had built their nest under the
musician's window had a home in some quiet woods in Surrey, where it
was delightfully mild and pleasant even in winter, but they never were
there in winter, although the wood had the name of Winterdown. It was a
lovely wood: broad-leaved arums and primroses, and violets blue and
white, covered the ground in spring, and in summer there were hundreds
and hundreds of glow-worms, and the old tree-trunks were wreathed with
ivy and honeysuckle. It was a very pleasant place, and near to it a
poet's children were born; they had wandered in its wilds, had gathered
its flowers, and admired its glow-worms, and listened to the
turtle-doves, when they were very young; now, however, their home was
near London; they only went to Winterdown about once a year for a great
holiday. The old turtle-doves talked about the poet's children in
Winterdown, and the young doves fancied that they lived there always.

[Illustration: THE POET'S CHILDREN.]

It was now the time for them to set off on their long journey; the old
doves had exercised their young ones, and they were sure that they could
perform the journey. Next morning early they were to set off.

All night there was a light burning in the young musician's chamber,
and towards morning the most heavenly music sounded from the window,
which the old monk had opened a little, a very little, for fresh air,
because his young friend had complained of the room being close and hot.
The sound awoke the doves; and they listened to what they still thought
a gl