nearly
eight o'clock
Some five months passed away . One January night the Independent minister of Clinton Magna was passing down the village street . Clinton lay robed in light snow , and `` sparkling to the moon . '' The frozen pond beside the green , though it was nearly eight o'clock , was still alive with children , sliding and shouting . All around the gabled roofs stood laden and spotless . The woods behind the village , and those running along the top of the snowy hill , were meshed in a silvery mist which died into the moonlit blue , while in the fields the sharpness of the shadows thrown by the scattered trees made a marvel of black and white . The minister , in spite of a fighting creed , possessed a measure of gentler susceptibilities , and the beauty of this basin in the chalk hills , this winter triumphant , these lights of home and fellowship in the cottage windows disputing the forlornness of the snow , crept into his soul .