eight in the evening
There was no moon . The stars were out , and the wind was quiet . Upon the whole , the inhabitants of the little Somersetshire village of Baxdale agreed that it was as fine a Christmas-eve as they could remember for some years past . Toward eight in the evening the one small street of the village was empty , except at that part of it which was occupied by the public-house . For the most part , people gathered round their firesides , with an eye to their suppers , and watched the process of cooking comfortably indoors . The old bare , gray church , situated at some little distance from the village , looked a lonelier object than usual in the dim starlight . The vicarage , nestling close under the shadow of the church-tower , threw no illumination of fire-light or candle-light on the dreary scene .