two o'clock
When Sunday came it seemed as if it were a day specially prepared for the beginning of religious instruction in the Chicken Hill School . The sky was cloudless save for little gauzy white flakes -- `` puffs of chiffon that had blown off the angels ' hats , '' Mary Watson said they were . The grain was just high enough to run in waves before the wind , and even Grandfather Gray , Mrs. Steadman 's father , admitted that the `` craps were as far on as he 'd ever seen them '' ; but in order that no one could accuse him of stirring up false hopes , he pointed out that `` the wheat has a long way to go yet before the snow flies , and there 's lots that might happen it . '' By half-past two o'clock , the time set for the service , the yard was well filled with buggies and waggons , while knots of men , looking uncomfortable in high collars , stood discussing the crops and the price of horses , all in the best of humour . When they saw the minister 's gray horse coming , the minister himself became the subject of conversation . `` It beats me , '' George Steadman said , springing the lid of his pipe with his thumb as he struck a match on the sole of his boot , `` it beats me what a man sees in preaching as a steady job . It 's easy work , all right , only one day in the week ; but there 's no money in it .