nine o'clock
The long empty street with the wind-drifts of dead leaves , the pale glimmer of the solitary light at the far corner , the steady splash ! splash ! of the rain as it fell on the brick pavement , the bitter draught that blew in over the shivering geranium upon the sill -- all these brought a lump to my throat , and I turned back quickly into our cheerful little room , where my untasted supper awaited me . The funeral was not until nine o'clock , but at seven my mother served us a cold breakfast in order , as she said , that she might get the dishes washed and the house tidied before we started . Gathering about the bare table , we ate our dismal meal in a depressed silence , while she bustled back and forth from the kitchen in her holiday attire , which consisted of a stiff black bombazine dress and the long rustling crape veil she had first put on at the death of her uncle Benjamin , some twenty years before . As her only outings were those occasioned by the deaths of her neighbours , I suppose her costume was quite as appropriate as it seemed to my childish eyes . Certainly , as she appeared before me in her hard , shiny , very full bombazine skirt and attenuated bodice , I regarded her with a reverence which her everyday calico had never inspired .