seven o'clock
and what a pity it seemed when at last the dull grown-up word was substituted . Never again , when rain was falling , would Hughie turn and plead , ` Father , tell the sun to come out ! ' Nor , when he saw the crescent moon in daytime , would he ever grow troubled and exclaim , ` Someone has broken it ! ' It was the rule now that before his bedtime , seven o'clock , Hughie spent an hour in the library , alone with his father . A golden hour , sacred to memories of the world 's own childhood . He brought with him the book that was his evening 's choice -- Grimm , or Andersen , or AEsop . Already he knew by heart a score of little poems , or passages of verse , which Rolfe , disregarding the inept volumes known as children 's anthologies , chose with utmost care from his favourite singers , and repeated till they were learnt .