eight o'clock
`` Cooking is hot work , and takes away the appetite , '' said Polly . She was listening in agony that moment , for over Helen 's head certain stealthy steps were creeping ; they were the steps of children , leaving their snug beds , and gliding as quietly as possible in the direction of the savory smells and the dusty ladder and the large dirty , spidery -- but oh , how romantic , how fascinating -- front attic . Never before did Polly realize how many creaky boards there were in the house ; oh , surely Helen would observe those steps ; but , no , she cracked her egg tranquilly , and sipped her tea , and talked in her pleasantest way of Polly 's excellent cooking , and of her day 's adventures . Time was going on ; it would soon be eight o'clock . Oh , horrors , why would the Rickettses and Mrs. Jones 's three boys choose the path through the shrubbery to approach the house ! The morning room , where Helen was taking her tea , looked out on the shrubbery , and although it was now quite dark in the world of nature , those dreadful rough boys would crack boughs , and stumble and titter as they walked . Polly 's face grew hotter and her hands colder ; never did she bless her sister 's rather slow and unsuspicious nature more than at this moment , for Helen heard no boughs crack , nor did the stealthy , smothered laughter , so distinctly audible to poor Polly , reach her ears .