seven o'clock in the
evening
He visited every parish on the north , passed through every village , climbed every glen , found his way into every out-of-the-way hut , and scraped acquaintance with every old woman living alone . Sometimes he was up in the vague fore-dawn , creeping through the quiet streets like a thief , going silently , stealthily , warily , until he came to the roads , or the fields , or the open Curragh , and could give swing to his step , and breath to his lungs , and voice to the cries that hurst from him . Two long weeks he spent in this wild quest , and meanwhile he was as happy as a boy to all outward seeming -- whistling , laughing , chaffing , bawling , talking nonsense , any nonsense , and kicking up his heels like a kid . But wheresoever he went , and howsoever early he started on his errands , he never failed to be back at home at seven o'clock in the evening -- washed , combed , in his slippers and shirt-sleeves , smoking a long clay over the garden gate as the postman went by with the letters . `` She 'll write , '' he told himself . `` When she 's mending a bit she 'll aise our mind and write . ` Dear ould Pete , excuse me for not writing afore ' -- that 'll he the way of it .