Five o’clock
The dew lay heavy on leaf and blade and gossamer , a cool fresh wind swept clear over dale and down from the sea , and the clover field rippled like a silvery lake in the breeze . There is something inexpressibly beautiful in the unused day , something beautiful in the fact that it is still untouched , unsoiled ; and town and country share alike in this loveliness . At half-past three on a June morning even London has not assumed her responsibilities , but smiles and glows lighthearted and smokeless under the caresses of the morning sun . Five o'clock . The bell rings out crisp and clear from the monastery where the Bedesmen of St Hugh watch and pray for the souls on this labouring forgetful earth . Every hour the note of comfort and warning cries across the land , tells the Sanctus , the Angelus , and the Hours of the Passion , and calls to remembrance and prayer . When the wind is north , the sound carries as far as my road , and companies me through the day ; and if to His dumb children God in His mercy reckons work as prayer , most certainly those who have forged through the ages an unbroken chain of supplication and thanksgiving will be counted among the stalwart labourers of the house of the Lord .