three o'clock
Scanty snow showers fell late under ` the roaring moon of daffodil , ' whitening the moorlands and lying glistening in the morning light , to be gathered up by the rays of the sun that day by day climbed higher in the cold blue of the sky of spring . Young blades of green lay scattered like emerald shafts amid the tawny wastes of the winter grass , and swelling branches told of a year 's returning life . Just as the golden chalice of the first crocus opened on the graves of the Rehoboth burial-yard , the old woman at the chapel-house died . * * * * * The funeral was to take place at three o'clock , but long before the hour old Joseph 's kitchen was filled with a motley group of mourners . They came from far and near , from moor and field , and from the cottages over the way . Every branch of the family was represented -- sons and daughters , grandchildren , nephews and nieces , even to babies in arms . As they straggled in , the women attired in their best black , and the men wearing their top-hats -LRB- a headgear worn by the Lancashire operative only on the state occasion of funerals -RRB- , it seemed as though old Joseph , like Abraham , was the father of a race as the stars of heaven for multitude , and as the sands by the seashore , innumerable .