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 glorious bird. The little old man sat with his feeble hands together,
and his head raised; it was the first time for years that he had ever
sat _so_; the young man played, and there was a heavenly joy in his
soul; he knew not whether he was in heaven or earth; all his pain was
gone. It was a blissful moment; the next, and all was still in the