seven o'clock
THE river was still running under the bridge , but the current of time had swept Jacob Cochrane out of sight , though not out of mind , for he had left here and there a disciple to preach his strange and uncertain doctrine . Waitstill , the child who never spoke in her father 's presence , was a young woman now , the mistress of the house ; the stepmother was dead , and the baby a girl of seventeen . The brick cottage on the hilltop had grown only a little shabbier . Deacon Foxwell Baxter still slammed its door behind him every morning at seven o'clock and , without any such cheerful conventions as good-byes to his girls , walked down to the bridge to open his store . The day , properly speaking , had opened when Waitstill and Patience had left their beds at dawn , built the fire , fed the hens and turkeys , and prepared the breakfast , while the Deacon was graining the horse and milking the cows . Such minor `` chores '' as carrying water from the well , splitting kindling , chopping pine , or bringing wood into the kitchen , were left to Waitstill , who had a strong back , or , if she had not , had never been unwise enough to mention the fact in her father 's presence . The almanac day , however , which opened with sunrise , had nothing to do with the real human day , which always began when Mr. Baxter slammed the door behind him , and reached its high noon of delight when he disappeared from view .