five o'clock
As she reached the bars again , on her homeward track , she stopped suddenly , and her face broke into smiling at the pungent fragrance rising from the bruised herbage beneath her feet . She stooped and gathered one telltale , homely weed , mixed as it was with the pasture grass . `` Pennyr ` yal , '' she said happily , and felt the richness of being . When Old Lady Lamson had ironed her shirts and put them away again , all hot and sweet from the fire , it was five o'clock , and the birds had long been trying to drag creation up from sleep , to sing with them the wonders of the dawn . At six , she had her cup of tea , and when , at eight , her son drove into the yard , she came placidly to the side door to meet him , her knitting in her hands . `` Well , if I ai n't glad ! '' called David .