midnight
As she sat in her small room , weary and yet sleepless , she tried to divert her thoughts by reading the journals , and found in three of them notices of the last number of -- Magazine , and especial mention of her essay : `` Keeping the Vigil of St. Martin under the Pines of Grutli . '' The extravagant laudations of this article surprised her , and she saw that while much curiosity was indulged concerning the authorship , one of the editors ventured to attribute it to a celebrated and very able writer , whose genius and erudition had lifted him to an enviable eminence in the world of American letters . The criticisms were excessively flattering , and the young author , gratified at the complete success that had crowned her efforts , cut out the friendly notices , intending to enclose them in a letter to Mrs. Murray . Unable to sleep , giving audience to memories of her early childhood , she passed the night at her window , watching the constellations go down behind the dark , frowning mass of rock that lifted its parapets to the midnight sky , and in the morning light saw the cold , misty cowl drawn over the venerable hoary head . The village had changed so materially that she could scarcely recognize any of the old landmarks , and the people who kept the hotel could tell her nothing about Peter Wood , the miller . After breakfast she took a box containing some flowers packed in wet cotton , and walked out on the road leading in the direction of the blacksmith 's shop . Very soon the trees became familiar , she remembered every turn of the road and bend on the fences ; and at last the grove of oak and chestnut shading the knoll at the intersection of the roads met her eye .