CHAPTER FIRST.

ABOUT A YOUNG ENGLISH MUSICIAN, AND HOW HE CAME TO SPEND THE WINTER AT MOUNT CARMEL.

A
great many turtle-doves lived about Mount Carmel, and there were orange-trees and cypresses there, and among these the doves lived all the winter. They had broods early in the year, and towards the end of March, or the beginning of April, they set off like great gentlefolks, to spend "the season" near London. All last winter a young English musician, who was very pale and thin, lived with the monks in the monastery on Mount Carmel. He went to Syria because when a child he had loved so to hear his mother read in the Bible about Elijah and Elisha on Mount Carmel. And he used to think then that if ever he was rich, he would go and see all the wonderful places mentioned in the Bible.

But he never was rich, and yet he came here. He was very pale, and had large and beautiful but sorrowful eyes. He took a violin with him to Mount Carmel; it was the greatest treasure he had on earth, and he played the most wonderful things on this violin that ever were heard, and everybody who heard it said that he was a great musician. In the winters he suffered very much from the cold and the fogs of England; so, last summer he saved a little money, and set off with his violin for Syria, and all last winter he lived in the monastery of Mount Carmel, among the grave old monks.

There was one little old monk, a very old man, who soon grew very fond of him; he too had been a musician, but he was now almost childish, and had forgotten how to play; and the brother monks had taken from him his old violin, because they said he made such a noise with it. He cried to part with it, like a child, poor old man!

The young musician had a little chamber in the monastery, which overlooked the sea; nobody can think what a beautiful view it had. The sun shone in so warm and pleasant, and a little group of cypresses grew just below the window.

The young man often and often stood at the window, and looked out upon the sea, and down into the cypress-trees, among the thick branches of which he heard the doves cooing. He loved to hear them coo, and so did the little old monk. One day early in January he saw that the turtle-doves had built a nest just in sight; he watched the birds taking it by turns to sit on the eggs, and his heart was full of love to them; they turned up their gentle eyes to him, but they never flew away, for they saw in his mild and sorrowful countenance, that he would not hurt them.

Beautiful and melancholy music sounded for half of the day down from his window to where the birds sat; it had a strange charm for the doves, they thought it was some new kind of nightingale come down from heaven. The little old monk sat in his Carmelite frock, with his hands laid together on his knees and his head down on his breast, and listened with his whole soul; to him too it came as a voice from heaven, and seemed to call him away to a better land; great tears often fell from his eyes, but they were not sorrowful tears, they were tears of love, tears which were called forth by a feeling of some great happiness which was coming for him, but which he could not rightly understand. He was, as you know, a very old man, the oldest in all the monastery.

CHAPTER SECOND.

ABOUT THE KIND OLD MONK AND THE MUSICIAN, AND ABOUT THE TURTLE-DOVES WHO MADE THEIR NEST NEAR HIS WINDOW.

H
eavenly music from the young man's room was heard every day;—finer and finer it sounded. As early spring came on, he grew very poorly; the little old monk used to bring him his meals into his chamber, because it tired 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.

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 chamber—wonderfully still. The lamp continued burning, a soft breeze blew in from the half-opened window, and just stirred the little old man's Carmelite frock, and lifted the young man's dark locks, but they neither of them moved.

"That glorious bird has done his singing for this morning," said the old doves; "he will now sleep—let us set off; all our friends and neighbors are off already; we have a long journey before us." The parent doves spread their wings; they and their elder ones were away, but the younger stayed as if entranced in the nest; he could think of nothing but the glorious bird that had just been singing: his family wheeled round the cypress, and then returned for him; they bade him come, for it was late. The sun was rising above the sea, and all the doves of Carmel were ready for flight. The younger dove then spread its wings also for this long journey, bearing with him still the remembrance of that thrilling music which affected him so greatly.

The turtle-doves went forth on their long journey. The young musician and the little old monk had started before them on one much longer.