about eleven in
the morning
On the north end of this park-like highway , and beyond the last house , it narrows to an ordinary roadway and divides . One fork turns to the right , following up the banks of a winding stream to an old grist-mill with moss-covered wheel and lily-dotted pond above . The other turns to the left , crosses the narrow Sandgate valley , and bears south past the Page place . If it were Sunday , not many years ago , and about eleven in the morning , a stranger passing the church would have heard through the open doors and windows the exquisitely sweet voice of Alice Page , clear as a bell and melodious as a bird 's , toying and trilling through `` Coronation , '' or some other easily recognized hymn ; and had that stranger awaited the close of service he or she would have seen among the congregation filing out one petite and plump little lady , with flower-like face , sparkling blue eyes , and kiss-inspiring mouth , who would most likely have walked demurely along with her big brother Albert , and turning down a narrow pathway , follow him across the meadows , over a foot-bridge that spans the stream , and up to an old-fashioned elm-shaded house . This landmark , known far and wide as the Page place , is historic . Built in the time of King George , and one of the first three erected in Sandgate , it has withstood the storms of two centuries and seen many generations of Pages come and go . Additions have been made to it -- an ell on one side , larger windows and a wide veranda in front .