midnight
She went to it and lifted it up . It was a spiny , red-brown , sprawling thing just beginning to clothe itself with leaves . It had been breast-high when she had picked the fruit from it , and Claude had stood over there , in that patch of common brakes which then rose above his knees , but was now a bed of delicate , elongated sprays leaning backward with incomparable grace . She found the heart to sing -- her voice , which used to be strong enough , yielding her but the ghost of song , as the notes of an old spinnet give back the ghost of music long ago dead : `` Oh , mirk , mirk is the midnight hour , And loud the tempest 's roar ; A waeful wanderer seeks thy tower , Lord Gregory ope thy door . '' She could not remember having so much as hummed this air since the day Claude had interrupted it ; but she went on , unfalteringly , to the lines at which he had broken in : `` At least be pity to me shown , If love it may na ' be -- '' She did n't falter even here ; she only allowed her voice to trail away in the awed pianissimo into which he had frightened her . She stopped then and went through the conversation that ensued on the memorable day , and of which the very words were imprinted on her heart : `` Is n't it Rosie ? I 'm Claude . ''