midnight
Into the house he went , into the only habitable room . It was at best a desolate abode ; the walls were bare , the floor was rotting , but about him he cast a look of helpless affection , at the bed , at a shelf whereon a few books were piled . He opened a closet and took therefrom a faded carpet-bag and into it he put Rousseau 's Confessions , then an old book on logic , and then he hesitated and looked up at the shelf . All were dear to him , these thumbed and dingy books ; many a time at midnight had they supped with him beside the fire of muttering white-oak coals , and out into the wild bluster of a storm had they driven care and loneliness . But he could not take them all . Painfully he made his selections , nearly filled his bag , leaving barely room for an old satin waistcoat and two shirts ; and these he stuffed in hastily . He put the bag upon the bed , when with fumbling he had fastened it , and stood looking about the room .