eleven p.m.
Certainly to those who had fanned themselves through the tedious torture long remembered as the `` hot Sunday , '' the science-predicted period of returning glaciers and polar snows where palms and lemons now hold sway , seemed even more distant than the epoch suggested by the speculative . In proportion to the elevation of the mercurial vein which mounted to and poisoned itself at 100 degrees , the religious , the devotional , pulse sank lower , almost to zero ; consequently , although circumstances of unusual interest attracted the congregation to the church , where Mr. Lindsay intended to preach his farewell sermon , only a limited number had braved the heat to shake hands with the young minister , who ere another sunrise would have started on his long journey to the pagan East . At the parsonage it had been a sad day , sad despite the grave serenity of Mr. Hargrove , the quiet fortitude of Mr. Lindsay , and the desperate attempts of the mother to drive back tears , compose fluttering lips , and steady the tones of her usually cheerful voice . For several days previous , Mr. Hargrove had been quite indisposed , and as his nephew would leave home at eleven p.m. , the customary Sunday night service had been omitted . As the afternoon wore away , the family trio assembled on the shaded end of the north verandah , and with intuitive delicacy , Regina shrank from intruding on the final interview which appeared so sacred . Followed by Hero , she went through the shrubbery , and down a walk bordered with ancient cedars , which led to a small gate that opened into the adjoining churchyard . In accordance with a custom long since fallen hopelessly into desuetude , but prevailing when the venerable church was erected , it had been placed in the centre of a spacious square , every yard of which had subsequently become hallowed as the last resting-place of families who had passed away , since the lofty spire rose like a huge golden finger pointing heavenward .