twelve
o’clock
She raised her dull eyes ; they seemed to hold in their depths a knowledge of aloofness from the happier world , and their dumb sorrow pierced your very heart , while it gave you an irresistible sense of aversion . She smiled , but the smile only gave you a new thrill ; it was vacant and had no joy in it , rather an uncommunicable grief . As she sat there with her battered doll , she was to the superficial eye repulsive , but to the eye that pierces externals she was almost majestic in her mysterious loneliness and separation . The steam-whistle of a factory near by blew a long note for twelve o'clock , and she rose from her bench , took the children by the hand , and dragged them , kindly but firmly , up the steps into the kitchen . She laid her doll under a towel , but , with a furtive look at the boy , rolled it in a cloth and tucked it under her skirt at the waist-line . She then washed the children 's faces , tied on their calico bibs , and pushed them up to the pine table . While they battered the board and each other with spoons and tin mugs , she went automatically to a closet , took a dish of cold porridge and turned it into three bowls , poured milk over it , spread three thick slices of wheat bread with molasses from a cup , and sat down at the table .