midnight
I 'll have that piano tuned up before you come again . Play something festive . ' Very simple indeed were the tunes to which Mottram 's art and the limitations of the piano could give effect , but the men listened with pleasure , and in the pauses talked all together of what they had seen or heard when they were last at home . A dense dust-storm sprung up outside , and swept roaring over the house , enveloping it in the choking darkness of midnight , but Mottram continued unheeding , and the crazy tinkle reached the ears of the listeners above the flapping of the tattered ceiling-cloth . In the silence after the storm he glided from the more directly personal songs of Scotland , half humming them as he played , into the Evening Hymn . ` Sunday , ' said he , nodding his head . ` Go on .