eleven o'clock
It had reached the perfect height of its annual beauty with the full flowering of its orchards and fields , and with all the wealth of colour which was flung like spray against the dark brown thatched roofs of its clustering cottages by the masses of roses , red and white , that clambered as high as the tops of the chimneys , and turning back from thence , dropped downwards again in a tangle of blossoms , and twined over latticed windows with a gay and gracious air like garlands hung up for some great festival . The stillness of the Seventh Day 's pause was in the air , -- even the swallows , darting in and out from their prettily contrived nests under the bulging old-fashioned eaves , seemed less busy , less active on their bright pinions , and skimmed to and fro with a gliding ease , suggestive of happy indolence and peace . The doors of the church were set wide open , -- and Adam Frost , sexton and verger , was busy inside the building , placing the chairs , as was his usual Sunday custom , in orderly rows for the coming congregation . It was about half-past ten , and the bell-ringers , arriving and ascending into the belfry , were beginning to ` tone ' the bells before pealing the full chime for the eleven o'clock service , when Bainton , arrayed in his Sunday best , strolled with a casual air into the churchyard , looked round approvingly for a minute or two , and then with some apparent hesitation , entered the church porch , lifting his cap reverently as he did so . Once there , he coughed softly to attract Frost 's attention , but that individual was too much engrossed with his work to heed any lesser sound than the grating of the chairs he was arranging . Bainton waited patiently , standing near the carved oaken portal , till by chance the verger turned and saw him , whereupon he beckoned mysteriously with a crook 'd forefinger . `` Adam !