But on the whole the holiday was a bright dream of Paradise regained at a time when more than ever before his feet had seemed to march only to the cadence of the old, sad word, Nevermore.

Two sacred pilgrimages he made early in this holiday—­to the two shrines of his romantic boyhood—­to Shockoe Cemetery, where he not only visited “Helen’s” tomb, but laid a wreath upon the grave of Frances Allan—­his little foster mother, and to the churchyard on the hill.  The white steeple still slept serenely in the blue atmosphere above the church and, as of yore, the bell called in deep, sweet tones to prayer.  But how the churchyard had filled since he saw it last!  Graves, graves everywhere.  It was appalling!  He stepped between the graves, old and new, stooping to read the inscriptions upon the slabs.  So many that he remembered as merry boys and girls and hale men and women still in their prime—­could they really be dead?—­gone forever from the scenes which had known them and of which they seemed an integral part?  Oh, mystery of mysteries, how was it possible?—­Yet here were their names plainly written upon the marbles!  The church builded by men’s hands, the trees planted by men’s hands, the monuments fashioned by men’s hands remained, but the living, breathing men, where were they?  Could it be that God’s highest creation was a more perishable thing than the lifeless work of its own hand?  His spirit cried out within him against such a thought.  No, it could not be!  Gone from earth, or holden from mortal vision they assuredly were—­departed—­but dead?  No!

Finally he came to the grave beside the wall.  No marble tomb told the passer-by that there lay the body of Elizabeth Poe.  Yet, what matter?—­Was her sleep the less peaceful?  Was her tired spirit the less free?—­If in its flight it should visit this spot where it had laid the burden of the body down, surely it would find, for all there was no carven stone to mark it, a most sweet spot.  The greenest of grass, and clover with blossoms white and red, waved over it—­the summer breeze rippling through them with pleasant sound,—­and the tall trees hung a green canopy between it and the midday sun.

As he laid his offering of roses among the clover blooms and turned to go away the bell in the steeple began to toll.  How the past came back!—­He stood with uncovered and bowed head and counted the strokes.  Suddenly, there was a sound of horses tramping in the street below the wall.  Then through the gate and down the walk it came—­the solemn procession.

He waited until the last of the mourners had passed into the church, then followed, and as the bell stopped tolling and the organ began to play the familiar, moving chant, he passed in and took a seat near the door.  Whose funeral service he was attending he knew not—­but he was back in childhood, and it was beautiful to him to hear once more, in this very church, the words of spoken music and the old familiar hymns he had heard that day when his infant heart had been filled with a beautiful sorrow that was not pain.