_Man wars not with the dead._ It is a _trait_ of human nature, for which I love it.
I had not observed, till now, a little group assembled at the other end of the church-yard; it was a company of children, who were gathered round a young man, dressed in black, sitting on a gravestone.
He seemed to be asking them questions--probably, about their learning--and one little dirty ragged-headed fellow was clambering up his knees to kiss him.

The children had been eating black cherries--for some of the stones were scattered about, and their mouths were smeared with them.
As I drew near them, I thought I discerned in the stranger a mild benignity of countenance, which I had somewhere seen before--I gazed at him more attentively.
It was Allan Clare! sitting on the grave of his sister.
I threw my arms about his neck.

I exclaimed "Allan"-- he turned his eyes upon me--he knew me--we both wept aloud--it seemed as though the interval since we parted had been as nothing--I cried out, "Come, and tell me about these things." I drew him away from his little friends--he parted with a show of reluctance from the church-yard--Margaret and her grand-daughter lay buried there, as well as his sister--I took him to my inn--secured a room, where we might be private--ordered fresh wine--scarce knowing what I did, I danced for joy.
Allan was quite overcome, and taking me by the hand, he said, "This repays me for all." It was a proud day for me--I had found the friend I thought dead--earth seemed to me no longer valuable, than as it contained _him_; and existence a blessing no longer than while I should live to be his comforter.
I began, at leisure, to survey him with more attention.

Time and grief had left few traces of that fine _enthusiasm_, which once burned in his countenance--his eyes had lost their original fire, but they retained an uncommon sweetness, and whenever they were turned upon me, their smile pierced to my heart.
"Allan, I fear you have been a sufferer ?" He replied not, and I could not press him further.

I could not call the dead to life again.
So we drank and told old stories--and repeated old poetry--and sang old songs--as if nothing had happened.