rd the first
stroke of the nine o'clock bell, which hung in the belfry of the
church across the street. Although it was so near us that we could
hear the bellrope whistle in its grooves, and its last hoarse breath
in the belfry, there was no reverberation of its clang in the house;
the rock under us struck back its voice. It was an old Spanish bell,
Aunt Mercy told me. How it reached Barmouth she did not know. I
recognized its complaining voice afterward. It told me it could never
forget it had been baptized a Catholic; and it pined for the beggar
who rang it in the land of fan-leaved chestnuts! It would growl and
strangle as much as possible in the hands of Benjamin Beals, the
bell-ringer and coffin-maker of Barmouth. Except in the morning when
it called me up, I was glad to hear it. It was the signal of time
past; the oftener I heard it, the nearer I was to the end of my year.
Before it ceased to ring now Aunt Mercy called me in a low voice. I
returned to the middle room, and took a seat in one of the oak chairs,
whose back of upright rods was my nightly penance. Aunt Mercy took the
lamp from the shelf, and placed it upon a small oak stand, where
the Bible lay. Grand'ther entered, and sitting by the stand read a
chapter. His voice was like opium. Presently my head rolled across the
rods, and I felt conscious of slipping down the glassy seat. After
he had read the chapter he prayed. If the chapter had been long, the
prayer was short; if the chapter had been short, the prayer was long.
When he had ceased praying, he left the room without speaking, and
betook himself to bed. Aunt Mercy dragged me up the steep stairs,
undressed me, and I crept into bed, drugged with a monotony which
served but to deepen the sleep of youth and health. When the bell rang
the next morning, Aunt Mercy gave me a preparatory shake before she
began to dress, and while she walked up and down the room lacing her
stays entreated me to get up.

If the word lively could ever be used in reference to our life, it
might be in regard to Sunday. The well was so near the church that the
house was used as an inn for the accommodation of the church-goers who
lived at any distance, and who did not return home between the morning
and afternoon services. A regular set took dinner with us, and
there were parties who brought lunch, which they ate off their
handkerchiefs, on their knees. It was also a watering-place for the
Sunday-school scholars, who filed in tr