nearly nine o'clock
She reached the little wayside spring before even the early-rising mountain folk were abroad , found three pink blossoms in full perfection , plucked them and wrapped them carefully in damp cloths disposed in a little hickory basket that Uncle Pros had made for her years ago . It was a tiny thing , designed to hold a child 's play-pretties or a young girl 's sewing , but shaped and fashioned after the manner of mountain baskets , and woven of stout white hickory withes shaved down to daintier size and pliancy by the old man 's jack-knife . Life was very sweet to Johnnie Consadine as she straightened up , basket in hand , and turned toward the home journey . It was nearly nine o'clock when she reached the gap above Cottonville . She was singing a little , softly , to herself , as she footed it down the road , and wishing that she might see Gray 's face when he got her flowers . She planned to put them in a glass on his desk Monday morning , and of course she would be at her loom long before he should reach the office . She was glad they were such fine specimens -- all perfect .