nine o'clock
We find the family assembling for breakfast at The Firs one delightful morning at the end of July . The windows of the room were thrown open , and there streamed in with the sunlight fresh and delicious odours , tonics alike of mind and body . From the Scotch firs whence the dwelling took its name came a scent which mingled with wafted breath from the remoter heather , and the creepers about the house-front , the lovely bloom and leafage skirting the lawn , contributed to the atmosphere of health and joy . It was nine o'clock . The urn was on the gleaming table , the bell was sounding , Mr. Athel stepped in straight from the lawn , fresh after his ten minutes ' walk about the garden . Wilfrid Athel appeared at the same moment ; he was dark-complexioned and had black , glossy hair ; his cheeks were hollower than they should have been , but he had not the aspect of an invalid . Mrs. Rossall glided into the room behind him , fresh , fair , undemonstrative .