eight o'clock
What merit can there be in playing the votary of an ascetic conviction when the heart is bursting with its stifled cry for light and warmth , for human joy , for the golden fruit of the tree of life ? She had been sincere in her renunciation ; the way of worthiness was to cherish a sincerity as complete now that her soul flamed to the bliss which fate once more offered her . The hours passed slowly ; how long the night would be if Wilfrid neither wrote to her nor came . But he had written ; at eight o'clock the glad signal of the postman drew her to the door of her room where she stood trembling whilst someone went to the letter-box , and -- oh , joy ! ascended the stairs . It was her letter ; because her hands were too unsteady to hold it for reading , she knelt by a chair , like a child with a new picture-book , and spread the sheet open . And , having read it twice , she let her face fall upon her palms , to repeat to herself the words which danced fire-like b re her darkened eyes .