eight o'clock
O land of our nativity ! -- how deeply art thou impressed upon this poor brain ! -- go where we will -- see what we may -- thou art still unique to us -- thou art still superior to all other lands . It was eight o'clock of the evening above referred to , when a chaise entered the old avenue , passed the ruins of the Tower and the old mansion-house , and drew up immediately opposite old Adam Chalmers . The steps were immediately let down , and out sprung , with a bound , the long lost child , the blooming and matronly looking Mrs Wilson . Behind her followed one whom the reader , I trust , has long ago considered as dead , and perhaps buried , her manly and rejoicing husband William Wilson , handing out a fine girl of five years of age , a boy about three , and an infant still at the breast ! It was indeed a joyous meeting ; and the old man bustled about , embracing and pressing his child , and then surveying , with silent and intense interest , his grandchildren ; taking the oldest on his knee , and permitting him all manner of intercourse with his wrinkles and his grey hairs .