eight o'clock
It would be years , many years , before the snowy frills , and the pale gold head , and the firm , brown little hand would be ready for that ! Not many hours after he went slowly up to bed morning began to creep into the little valley . The redwoods turned gray , and then dark green , the fog stirred , and a first shaft of bright sunlight struck across a shoulder of the hills , and pierced the shadows about the brown bungalow . Alix , at her early bath , heard quail calling , and looked out to see the last of the fog vanishing at eight o'clock , and to get a wet rush of fragrance from the Persian lilac , blooming this year for the first time . At half-past eight she came out into the garden , to find her father somewhat ruefully studying the tumbled ruins of the yellow banksia rose . The garden was still wet , but warming fast ; she picked a plume of dark and perfumed heliotrope , and began to fasten it in his coat lapel while she kissed him . `` We 'll never get that back on the roof , my dear boy , '' Alix said maternally .