As she thought of this, there welled up within her such an intense longing for the old times that her eyes filled with tears.  Life had been beautiful in this place.  They had had weeks of work broken by many holiday festivities.  They had toiled hard all day, but at evening they had gathered around the lamp and read Tegner and Runeberg, “Fru" Lenngren and “Mamsell" Bremer.  They had cultivated grain, but also roses and jasmine.  They had spun flax, but had sung folk-songs as they spun.  They had worked hard at their history and grammar, but they had also played theatre and written verses.  They had stood at the kitchen stove and prepared food, but had learned, also, to play the flute and guitar, the violin and piano.  They had planted cabbages and turnips, peas and beans in one garden, but they had another full of apples and pears and all kinds of berries.  They had lived by themselves, and this was why so many stories and legends were stowed away in their memories.  They had worn homespun clothes, but they had also been able to lead care-free and independent lives.

“Nowhere else in the world do they know how to get so much out of life as they did at one of these little homesteads in my childhood!” she thought.  “There was just enough work and just enough play, and every day there was a joy.  How I should love to come back here again!  Now that I have seen the place, it is hard to leave it.”

Then she turned to the flock of doves and said to them—­laughing at herself all the while: 

“Won’t you fly to father and tell him that I long to come home?  I have wandered long enough in strange places.  Ask him if he can’t arrange it so that I may soon turn back to my childhood’s home.”

The moment she had said this the flock of doves rose and flew away.  She tried to follow them with her eyes, but they vanished instantly.  It was as if the whole white company had dissolved in the shimmering air.

The doves had only just gone when she heard a couple of piercing cries from the garden, and as she hastened thither she saw a singular sight.  There stood a tiny midget, no taller than a hand’s breadth, struggling with a brown owl.  At first she was so astonished that she could not move.  But when the midget cried more and more pitifully, she stepped up quickly and parted the fighters.  The owl swung herself into a tree, but the midget stood on the gravel path, without attempting either to hide or to run away.

“Thanks for your help,” he said.  “But it was very stupid of you to let the owl escape.  I can’t get away from here, because she is sitting up in the tree watching me.”

“It was thoughtless of me to let her go.  But to make amends, can’t I accompany you to your home?” asked she who wrote stories, somewhat surprised to think that in this unexpected fashion she had got into conversation with one of the tiny folk.  Still she was not so much surprised after all.  It was as if all the while she had been awaiting some extraordinary experience, while she walked in the moonlight outside her old home.