three o'clock in the morning
We generally lock it . Heaven knows why ! Why do we turn the key on that poor , broken , peaceful thing , as if it might storm out in the night , and carry us back with it into its own silence ? It was almost dawn -- the high spring dawn that in May flushes even Mercer 's skies at three o'clock in the morning , when , lamp in hand , Nannie Maitland opened her bedroom door and peered into the upper hall . Outside , the wind , which had begun to blow at sunset , was roaring around the old house ; it rumbled in the chimneys , and a sudden gust tore at a loose shutter , and sent it banging back against the bricks . But in the house everything was still . The window over the front door was an arch of glimmering gray barred by the lines of the casement ; but toward the well of the staircase there was nothing but darkness .