seven o'clock
You shall judge for yourself . It is Sunday morning . I should premise by saying that the deep gloom which has settled over everything set in like a heavy fog early on Saturday evening . At seven o'clock my grandfather comes smilelessly downstairs . He is dressed in black , and looks as if he had lost all his friends during the night . Miss Abigail , also in black , looks as if she were prepared to bury them , and not indisposed to enjoy the ceremony . Even Kitty Collins has caught the contagious gloom , as I perceive when she brings in the coffee-urn -- a solemn and sculpturesque urn at any time , but monumental now -- and sets it down in front of Miss Abigail .