noon
`` A lovely lady , garmented in light From her own beauty . '' -- Shelley . The day that is to bring them Luttrell has dawned , deepened , burst into perfect beauty , and now holds out its arms to the restful evening . A glorious sunny evening as yet , full of its lingering youth , with scarce a hint of the noon 's decay . The little yellow sunbeams , richer perhaps in tint than they were two hours agone , still play their games of hide-and-seek and bo-peep among the roses that climb and spread themselves in all their creamy , rosy , snowy loveliness over the long , low house where live the Massereenes , and breathe forth scented kisses to the wooing wind . A straggling house is Brooklyn , larger , at the first glance , than it in reality is , and distinctly comfortable , yet with its comfort , a thing very far apart from luxury , and with none of the sleepiness of an over-rich prosperity about it . In spite of the late June sun , there is a general air of life , a tremulous merriment , everywhere : the voices of the children , a certain laugh that rings like far-off music , the cooing of the pigeons beneath the eaves , the cluck-cluck of the silly fowls in the farm-yard , -- all mingle to defy the creeping sense of laziness that the day generates .