midnight
In that same mansion -- in that very chamber -- what a volume of history had been told off into hours , by the same voice that was now trembling in the air . Many a Governor had heard those midnight accents , and longed to exchange his stately cares for slumber . And as for mine host and Mr. Bela Tiffany and the old loyalist and me , we had babbled about dreams of the past , until we almost fancied that the clock was still striking in a bygone century . Neither of us would have wondered , had a hoop-petticoated phantom of Esther Dudley tottered into the chamber , walking her rounds in the hush of midnight , as of yore , and motioned us to quench the fading embers of the fire , and leave the historic precincts to herself and her kindred shades . But as no such vision was vouchsafed , I retired unbidden , and would advise Mr. Tiffany to lay hold of another auditor , being resolved not to show my face in the Province House for a good while hence -- if ever . One September night a family had gathered round their hearth , and piled it high with the driftwood of mountain streams , the dry cones of the pine , and the splintered ruins of great trees that had come crashing down the precipice . Up the chimney roared the fire , and brightened the room with its broad blaze .