three o'clock
There is Rydal chapel striking twelve ! My darling -- my darling ! -- good-night . ' The following Saturday afternoon , at three o'clock , the Carton motor duly arrived at the Rydal cottage door . It was a hot summer day , the mountains colourless and small under their haze of heat , the woods darkening already towards the August monotony , the streams low and shrunken . Lakeland was at the moment when the artists who haunt her would rather not paint her , remembering the subtleties of spring , and looking forward to the pageantry of autumn . But for the eye that loves her she has beauties enough at any time , and no blanching heat and dust can spoil the lovely or delicate things that lie waiting in the shade of her climbing oak-woods or on her bare fells , or beside her still lakes .