“And must you be a Scotch19 minister?” When Colin went home a fortnight later to make his preparations for returning to the University, he was occupied, to the exclusion20 of almost all other questions, by revolving this. It is true that at his age, and with his inexperience, it was possible to imagine that even a Scotch minister, totally unfavoured by fortune, might, by mere21 dint22 of genius, raise himself to heights of fame sufficient to bring Sir Thomas Frankland’s niece within his reach—but the thing was unlikely, even to the lively imagination of twenty. And it was the fact that Colin had no special “vocation” towards the profession for which he was being trained. He had been educated and destined23 for it all his life, and his thoughts had a{87} natural bias24 that way. But otherwise there was no personal impulse in his mind towards what Mrs. Jordan called “the work of the ministry25.” Hitherto his personal impulses had been neither for nor against. Luckily for Colin, and many of his contemporaries, there were so many things to object to in the Church of Scotland, so many defects of order and external matters which required reformation, that they were less strongly tempted26 to become sceptical in matters of faith than their fellows elsewhere. As for Colin himself, he had fallen off no doubt from the certainty of his boyhood upon many important matters; but the lad, though he was a Scotchman, was happily illogical, and suffered very little by his doubts. Nothing could have made him sceptical, in any real sense of the word, and accordingly there was no repulsion in Colin’s mind against his future profession. But now! He turned it over in his mind night and day in the interval27 between Matty’s departure and his own return to Ramore. What if, instead of a Scotch minister, incapable28 of promotion29, and to whom ambition itself was unlawful, he were to address himself to the Bar, where there were at least chances and possibilities of fame? He was occupied with this question, to the exclusion of every other, as he crossed the loch in the little steamer, and landed on the pier30 near Ramore, where his young brothers met him, eager to carry his travelling-bag, and convey him home in triumph. Colin was aware that such a proposal on his part would occasion grievous disappointment at home, and he did not know how to introduce the subject, or disclose his wavering wishes. It was a wonderful relief, as well as confusion to him, when he entered the Ramore parlour, to find Lauderdale in possession of the second arm-chair, opposite the mistress’s, which was sacred to visitors. He had arrived only the evening before, having left Glasgow “for a holiday, like everybody else, in the saut-water season; the first I ever mind of having in my life,” he said, with a certain boyish satisfaction, stretching out his long limbs by the parlour fire.
“It’s ower cauld to have much good of the water,” said the mistress; “the boat’s no laid up yet, waiting for Colin, but the weather’s awfu’ winterly—no to say soft,” she added, with a little sigh, “for its aye soft weather among the lochs, though we’ve had less rain than common this year.”
And as the mistress spoke31, the familiar, well-known rain came sweeping32 down over the hills. It had the usual effect upon the mind of the sensitive woman. “We maun take a’ the good we can of you, laddie,” she said, laying her kind hand{88} on her boy’s shoulder, “it’s only a sight we get now in passing. He’s owre much thought of, and made of, to spend his time at hame,” the mistress added, turning, with a half-reproachful pride to Lauderdale; “I’ll be awfu’ sorry if the rain lasts, on your account. But, for myself, I could put up with a little soft weather, to see mair of Colin; no that I want him to stay at hame when he might be enjoying himself,” she continued, with a compunction. Soft weather on the Holy Loch signified rain and mist, and everything that was most discouraging to Mrs. Campbell’s soul, but she was ready to undergo anything the skies could inflict33 upon her, if fortified34 by the society of her son.
It was the second night after his return before Colin could make up his mind to introduce the subject of which his thoughts were full. Tea was over by that time, and all the household assembled in the parlour. The farmer himself had just laid down his newspaper, from which he had been reading scraps35 of county gossip aloud, somewhat to the indignation of the mistress, who, for her part, liked to hear what was going on in the world, and took a great interest in Parliament and the foreign intelligence. “I canna say that I’m heeding36 about the muckle apple that’s been grown in Clydesdale, nor the new bailies in Greenock,” said the farmer’s wife. “If you would read us something wise-like about thae poor oppressed Italians, or what Louiss Napoleon is thinking about—I canna excuse him for what they ca’ the coo-detaw,” said Mrs. Campbell; “but for a’ that, I take a great interest in him;” and with this the mistress took up her knitting with a pleasant anticipation37 of more important news to come.
“There’s naething in the Herald38 about Louiss Napoleon,” said the farmer, “nor the Italians neither—no that I put much faith in thae Italians; they’ll quarrel amang themselves when there’s naebody else to quarrel wi’—though I’m no saying onything against Cavour and Garibaldi. The paper’s filled full o’ something mair immediately interesting—at least, it ought to have mair interest to you wi’ a son that’s to be a minister. Here’s three columns mair about that Dreepdaily case. It may be a grand thing for popular rights, but it’s an awfu’ ordeal39 for a man to gang through,” said big Colin, looking ruefully at his son.
“I was looking at that,” said Lauderdale. “It’s his prayers the folk seem to object to most—and no wonder. I’ve heard the man mysel’, and his sermon was not bad reasoning, if any{89}body wanted reasoning; but it’s a wonderful thing to me the way that new preachers take upon them to explain matters to the Almighty40,” said Colin’s friend reflectively. “So far as I can see, we’ve little to ask in our worship; but we have an awfu’ quantity of things to explain.”
“It is an ordeal I could never submit to,” said Colin, with perhaps a little more heat than was necessary. “I’d rather starve than be set up as a target for a parish. It is quite enough to make a cultivated clergy41 impossible for Scotland. Who would submit to expose one’s life, all one’s antecedents, all one’s qualities of mind and language to the stupid criticism of a set of boors42? It is a thing I never could submit to,” said the lad, meaning to introduce his doubts upon the general subject by this violent means.
“I dinna approve of such large talking,” said the farmer, laying down his newspaper. “It’s a great protection to popular rights. I would sooner run the risk of disgusting a fastidious lad now and then, than put in a minister that gives nae satisfaction; and if you canna submit to it, Colin, you’ll never get a kirk, which would be worse than criticism,” said his father, looking full into his face. The look brought a conscious colour to Colin’s cheeks.
“Well,” said the young man, feeling himself driven into a corner, and taking what courage he could from the emergency, “one might choose another profession;” and then there was a pause, and everybody in the room looked with alarm and amazement43 on the bold speaker. “After all, the Church is not the only thing in Scotland,” said Colin, feeling the greatness of his temerity44. “Nobody ventures to say it is in a satisfactory state. How often do I hear you criticising the sermon and finding fault with the prayers? and, as for Lauderdale, he finds fault with everything. Then, look how much a man has to bear before he gets a church as you say. As soon as he has his presentation the Presbytery comes together and asks if there are any objections; and then the parish sits upon the unhappy man; and, when everybody has had a turn at him, and all his peculiarities45 and personal defects and family history have been discussed before the Presbytery—and put in the newspapers, if they happen to be amusing—then the poor wretch46 has to sign a confession47 which nobody—”
“Stop you there, Colin, my man,” said the farmer, “that’s enough at one time. I wouldna say that you were a’thegither wrong as touching48 the sermon and the prayers. It’s awfu’ to go in{90} from the like of this hill-side and weary the very heart out of you in a close kirk, listening to a man preaching that has nothing in this world to say. I am whiles inclined to think—” said big Colin, thoughtfully—“laddies, you may as well go to your beds. You’ll see Colin the morn, and ye canna understand what we’re talking about. I am whiles disposed to think,” he continued after a pause, during which the younger members of the family had left the room, after a little gentle persuasion49 on the part of the mistress, “when I go into the kirk on a bonnie day, such as we have by times on the lock baith in summer and winter, that it’s an awfu’ waste of time. You lose a’ the bonnie prospect50, and you get naething but weariness for your pains. I’ve aye been awfu’ against set prayers read out of a book; but I canna but allow the English chapel51 has a kind of advantage in that, for nae fool can spoil your devotion there, as I’ve heard it done many and many’s the time. I ken10 our minister’s prayers very near as well as if they were written down,” said the farmer of Ramore, “and the maist part of them is great nonsense. Ony little scraps o’ real supplication52 there may be in them, you could get through in five minutes; the rest is a’ remarks, that I never can discriminate53 if they’re meant for me or for the Almighty; but my next neibor would think me an awfu’ heathen if he heard what I’m saying,” he continued, with a smile; “and I’m far from sure that I would get a mair merciful judgment54 from the wife herself.”
The mistress had been very busy with her knitting while her husband was speaking; but, notwithstanding her devotion to her work, she was uneasy and could not help showing it. “If we had been our lane it would have been naething,” she said to Colin, privately55; “but afore yon man that’s a stranger and doesna ken!” With which sentiment she sat listening, much disturbed in her mind. “It’s no a thing to say before the bairns,” she said, when she was thus appealed to, “nor before folk that dinna ken you. A stranger might think you were a careless man to hear you speak,” said Mrs. Campbell, turning to Lauderdale with bitter vexation, “for a’ that you havena missed the kirk half a dozen times a’ the years I have kent you—and that’s a long time,” said the mother, lifting hers soft eyes to her boy. When she looked at him she remembered that he too had been rash in his talk. “You’re turning awfu’ like your father, Colin,” said the mistress, “taking up the same thoughtless way of talking. But I think different for a’ you say. Our ain kirk is aye our ain kirk to you as well as to me, in spite o{91}’ your speaking. I’m well accustomed to their ways,” she said, with a smile, to Lauderdale, who, so far from being the dangerous observer she thought him, had gone off at a tangent into his own thoughts.
“The Confession of Faith is a real respectable historical document,” said Lauderdale. “I might not like to commit myself to a’ it says, if you were to ask me; but then I’m not the kind o’ man that has a heart to commit myself to anything in the way of intellectual truth. I wouldna bind56 myself to say that I would stand by any document a year after it was put forth57, far less a hundred years. There’s things in it naebody believes—for example, about the earth being made in six days; but I would not advise a man to quarrel with his kirk and his profession for the like of that. I put no dependence58 on geology for my part, nor any of the sciences. How can I tell but somebody might make a discovery the morn that would upset all their fine stories? But, on the whole, I’ve very little to say against the Confession. It’s far more guarded about predestination and so forth than might have been expected. Every man of common sense believes in predestination; though I would not be the man to commit myself to any statement on the subject. The like of me is good for little,” said Colin’s friend, stretching his long limbs towards the fire, “but I’ve great ambition for that callant. He’s not a common callant, though I’m speaking before his face,” said Lauderdale; “it would be terrible mortifying59 to me to see him put himself in a corner and refuse the yoke60.”
“If I cannot bear the yoke conscientiously61, I cannot bear it at all,” said Colin, with a little heat. “If you can’t put your name to what you don’t believe, why should I?—and as for ambition,” said the lad, “ambition! what does it mean?—a country church, and two or three hundred ploughmen to criticise62 me, and the old wives to keep in good humour, and the young ones to drink tea with—is that work for a man?” cried the youth, whose mind was agitated63, and who naturally had said a good deal more than he intended to say. He looked round in a little alarm after this rash utterance64, not knowing whether he had been right or wrong in such a disclosure of his sentiments. The father and mother looked at each other, and then turned their eyes simultaneously65 upon their son. Perhaps the mistress had a glimmering66 of the correct meaning which Colin would not have betrayed wittingly had it cost him his life.
“Eh, Colin, sometime ye’ll think better,” she cried under her{92} breath—“after a’ our pride in you and our hopes!” The tears came into her eyes as she looked at him. “It’s mair honour to serve God than to get on in this world,” said the mistress. The disappointment went to her heart, as Colin could see; she put her hands hastily to her eyes to clear away the moisture which dimmed them. “It’s maybe naething but a passing fancy—but it’s no what I expected to hear from any bairn of mine,” she said with momentary67 bitterness. As for the farmer, he looked on with a surprised and inquiring countenance68.
“There has some change come over you, Colin—what has happened?” said his father. “I’m no a man that despises money, nor thinks it a sin to get on in the world, but it’s only fools that quarrel wi’ what’s within their reach for envy of what they can never win to. If ye had displayed a strong bent69 any other way I wouldna have minded,” said big Colin. “But it’s the new-fangled dishes at Ardmartin that have spoiled the callant’s digestion70; he’ll come back to his natural inclination71 when he’s been at home for a day or two,” the farmer added, laying his large hand on his son’s shoulder with a pressure which meant more than his words; but the youth was vexed72, and impatient, and imagined himself laughed at, which is the most dreadful of insults at Colin’s age, and in his circumstances. He paid no attention to his father’s looks, but plunged73 straightway into vehement74 declaration of his sentiments, to which the elder people around him listened with many complications of feeling unknown to Colin. The lad thought, as was natural at his years, that nobody had ever felt before him the same bondage75 of circumstance and perplexities of soul, and that it was a new revelation he was making to his little audience. If he could have imagined that both the men were looking at him with the half sympathy, half pity, half envy of their maturer years, remembering as vividly76 as if it had occurred but yesterday similar outbreaks of impatience77 and ambition and natural resistance to all the obstacles of life, Colin would have felt deeply humiliated78 in his youthful fervour; or, if he could but have penetrated79 the film of softening80 dew in his mother’s eyes, and beheld81 there the woman’s perennial82 spectatorship of that conflict which goes on for ever. Instead of that, he thought he was making a new revelation to his hearers; he thought he was cruel to them, tearing asunder83 their pleasant mists of illusion, and disenchanting their eyes; he had not an idea that they knew all about it better than he did, and were watching him as{93} he rushed along the familiar path which they all had trod in different ways, and of which they knew the inevitable84 ending. Colin, in the heat and impatience of his youth, took full advantage of his moment of utterance. He poured forth in his turn that flood of immeasurable discontent with all conditions and restrictions85, which is the privilege of his years. To be sure, the restrictions and conditions surrounding himself were, so far as he knew, the sole objects of that indignation and scorn and defiance86 which came to his lips by force of nature. As for his mother, she listened, for her part, with that mortification87 which is always the woman’s share. She understood him, sympathised with him, and yet did not understand nor could tolerate his dissent88 from all that in her better judgment she had decided89 upon on his behalf. She was far more tender, but she was lest tolerant than the other spectators of Colin’s outburst; and mingled90 with all her personal feeling was a sense of wounded pride and mortification, that her boy had thus betrayed himself “before a stranger.” “If we had been our lane, it would have been less matter,” she said to herself, as she wiped the furtive91 tears hurriedly from the corners of her eyes.
When Colin had come to an end there was a pause. The boy himself thought it was a pause of horror and consternation92, and perhaps was rather pleased to produce an effect in some degree corresponding to his own excitement. After that moment of silence, however, the farmer got up from his chair. “It’s very near time we were a’ gaun to our beds,” said big Colin. “I’ll take a look round to see that the beasts are comfortable, and then we’ll have in the hot water. You and me can have a talk the morn,” said the farmer to his son. This was all the reply which the youth received from the parental93 authorities. When the master went out to look after the beasts, Lauderdale followed to the door, where Colin in another moment strayed after him, considerably94 mortified95, to tell the truth; for even his mother addressed herself to the question of “hot water,” which implied various other accessories of the homely96 supper-table; and the young man, in his excitement and elevation of feeling, felt as if he had suddenly tumbled down out of the stormy but lofty firmament97, into which he was soaring—down, with a shock, into the embraces of the homely tenacious98 earth. He went after his friend, and stood by Lauderdale’s side, looking out into a darkness so profound that it made his eyes ache and confused his very mind. The only gleam of light visible in earth or heaven was big Colin’s lantern, which showed a tiny gleam from{94} the door of the byre where the farmer was standing1. All the lovely landscape round, the loch and the hills, the sky and the clouds, lay unseen—hidden in the night. “Which is an awfu’ grand moral lesson, if we had but sense to discern it,” said the voice of Lauderdale ascending99 half-way up to the clouds; “for the loch hasna’ vanished, as might be supposed, but only the light. As for you, callant, you ken neither the light nor the darkness as yet, but are aye seeing miraculous100 effects like yon man Turner’s pictures, Northern Streamers, or Aurora101 Borealis, or whatever ye may call it. And it’s but just you should have your day;” with which words Lauderdale heaved a great sigh, which moved the clouds of hair upon Colin’s forehead, and even seemed to disturb, for a moment, the profound gloom of the night.
“What do you mean by having my day?” said Colin, who was affronted102 by the suggestion. “You know I have said nothing that is not true. Can I help it if I see the difficulties of my own position more clearly than you do, who are not in my circumstances?” cried the lad with a little indignation. Lauderdale, who was watching the lantern gliding103 out and in through the darkness, was some time before he made any reply.
“I’m no surprised at yon callant Leander, when one comes to think of it,” he said in his reflective way; “it’s a fine symbol, that Hero in her tower. May be she took the lamp from the domestic altar and left the household god in darkness,” said the calm philosopher; “but that makes no difference to the story. I wouldna’ say but I would swim the Hellespont myself for such an inducement—or the Holy Loch—it’s little matter which; but whiles she lets fall the torch before you get to the end—”
“What do you mean? or what has Hero to do with me?” cried Colin, with a secret flush of shame and rage, which the darkness concealed104 but which he could scarcely restrain.
“I was not speaking of you—and after all, it’s but a fable105,” said Lauderdale; “most history is fable, you know; it’s no actual events, (which I never believe in, for my part,) but the instincts o’ the human mind that make history—and that’s how the Heros and Leanders are aye to be accounted for. He was drowned in the end like most people,” said Lauderdale, turning back to the parlour where the mistress was seated, pondering with a troubled countenance upon this new aspect of her boy’s life. Amid the darkness of the world outside this tender woman sat in the sober radiance of her domestic hearth106, surrounded and enshrined by light; but she was not like Hero on the tower.{95} Colin, too, came back, following his friend with a flush of excitement upon his youthful countenance. After all, the idea was not displeasing107 to the young man. The Hellespont, or the Holy Loch, were nothing to the bitter waters which he was prepared to breast by the light of the imaginary torch held up in the hand of that imaginary woman who was beckoning108 Colin, as he thought, into the unknown world. Life was beginning anew in his person, and all the fables109 had to be enacted110 over again; and what did it matter to the boy’s heroic fancy, if he too should go to swell111 the record of the ancient martyrs112, and be drowned, as Lauderdale said—like most people—in the end?
There was no further conversation upon this important subject until next morning, when the household of Ramore got up early, and sat down to breakfast before it was perfect daylight; but Colin’s heart jumped to his mouth, and a visible thrill went through the whole family, when the farmer came in from his early inspection113 of all the byres and stables, with another letter from Sir Thomas Frankland conspicuous114 in his hand.
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1
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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2
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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4
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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6
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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7
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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8
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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9
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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12
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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14
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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41
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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42
boors
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| n.农民( boor的名词复数 )；乡下佬；没礼貌的人；粗野的人 | |
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43
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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44
temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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45
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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46
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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47
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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48
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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49
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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50
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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51
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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52
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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53
discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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56
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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60
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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73
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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98
tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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100
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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101
aurora
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| n.极光 | |
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102
affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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103
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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104
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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105
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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106
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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107
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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108
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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109
fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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110
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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112
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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113
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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114
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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