midnight
Mr Clare was leaning over Clump with a hand on the pulseless heart . The burning wreck yet lighted the heavens , and the horrid scene at the very doorstep of our home of such a happy half-year . It is fifty years ago and some months since that rainy , bloody , flame-lit October night . And now this cold , wintery , blustering midnight , I -- the Bob Tregellin of my story -- sit writing this concluding chapter . There is a coal-fire glowing hot in the grate . There are shelves and shelves of books ; easy-chairs sprawling their indolent figures here and there ; a curled-up bunch of fur purring in one ; an old black setter-dog dreaming -- as I can see by the whine in his quick breathing and the kicking of his outstretched legs -- on a bearskin rug before the fire ; and a circle of bright light from a well-shaded lamp falls about my table . Yes -- but I shall get up now for a minute and take down the old musket and dog-collar , the sight of which always vividly recalls those happiest months of my life -- Fifty Years Ago .