seven o'clock in the morning
Hunters coming off its veranda and gazing down the street , as if sighting over gun-barrels at the bridge , were wont to reckon the distance `` nigh on to forty rod . '' There were `` Boston Stores '' and `` Great Emporiums '' and shops , modest as they were small , in that forty rods of Hillsborough . Midway was a little white building , its eaves within reach of one 's hand , its gable on the line of the sidewalk overhanging which , from a crane above the door , was a big , golden spool . In its two windows were lace and ribbons and ladies ' hats and spools of thread , and blue shades drawn high from seven o'clock in the morning until dark . It was the little shop of Ruth Tole -- a house of Fate on the way from happening to history . There secrets , travel-worn , were nourished a while and sent on their way ; reputations were made over and often trimmed with excellent taste and discrimination . The wicked might prosper for a time , but by and by the fates were at work on them , there in the little shop , and then every one smiled as the sinner passed , with the decoration of his rank upon him .