twelve o’clock
Carey , like one of her children , absolutely forgot everything in the charm and wonder of the scene , in the pure , delicate unimaginable odour of the primroses , in debating with Allen whether -LRB- cockneys that they were -RRB- it could be a nightingale `` singing by day when every goose is cackling , '' in listening to the marvellous note , only pausing to be answered from further depths , in the beauty of the whole , and in the individual charm of every flower , each heavily-laden arch of dark blue-bells with their curling tips , so infinitely more graceful than their pampered sister , the hyacinth of the window-glass , of each pure delicate anemone she gathered , with its winged stem , of the smiling primrose of that inimitable tint it only wears in its own woodland nest ; and when Allen lighted on a bed of wood-sorrel , with its scarlet stems , lovely trefoil leaves , and purple striped blossoms like insect 's wings , she absolutely held her breath in an enthusiasm of reverent admiration . No one can tell the happiness of those four , only slightly diminished by Armine 's getting bogged on his way to the golden river of king-cups , and his mother in going after him , till Allen from an adjacent stump pulled them out , their feet deeply laden with mud . They had only just emerged when the strokes of a great bell came pealing up from the town below ; Allen and his mother looked at each other in amused dismay , then at their watches . It was twelve o'clock ! Two hours had passed like as many minutes , and the boys would be coming home to dinner . `` Ah ! well , we must go , '' said Carey , as they gathered up their armloads of flowers .