eight o'clock
Every Saturday I wrote home , telling of my weekly doings -- my father had insisted upon this ; but there was so little variety in my life that I often found it hard work to fill a letter . On Sundays I went twice to chapel , up a dark narrow entry , to hear droning hymns , and long prayers , and a still longer sermon , preached to a small congregation , of which I was , by nearly a score of years , the youngest member . Occasionally , Mr Peters , the minister , would ask me home to tea after the second service . I dreaded the honour , for I usually sate on the edge of my chair all the evening , and answered solemn questions , put in a deep bass voice , until household prayer-time came , at eight o'clock , when Mrs Peters came in , smoothing down her apron , and the maid-of-all-work followed , and first a sermon , and then a chapter was read , and a long impromptu prayer followed , till some instinct told Mr Peters that supper-time had come , and we rose from our knees with hunger for our predominant feeling . Over supper the minister did unbend a little into one or two ponderous jokes , as if to show me that ministers were men , after all . And then at ten o'clock I went home , and enjoyed my long-repressed yawns in the three-cornered room before going to bed . Dinah and Hannah Dawson , so their names were put on the board above the shop-door -- I always called them Miss Dawson and Miss Hannah -- considered these visits of mine to Mr Peters as the greatest honour a young man could have ; and evidently thought that if after such privileges , I did not work out my salvation , I was a sort of modern Judas Iscariot .