Prayer all their business, all their pleasure praise.”—Parnell.
The following evening they were engaged to spend at a farmer’s. The invitation was given with such humility1, yet pressed with such warmth, that they could not avoid accepting it, and accordingly, soon after dinner, walked to the house, which was about a mile from Castle Carberry. It was a low thatched building—every appendage2 to it bespoke3 neatness and comfort. It was situated5 in a beautiful meadow, enclosed from the road by a hawthorn6 hedge, and on the opposite side lay an extensive common, on which stood the stupendous and venerable ruins of an abbey, called St. Catherine’s. They appeared a melancholy7 monument of the power of time over strength and grandeur8; and while they attracted the observation of the curious, excited a sigh in the bosom9 of sensibility.
The farmer’s family consisted of three daughters and two sons, who were now dressed in their best array. They had assembled a number of their neighbors, among whom was a little fat priest, called Father O’Gallaghan—considered the life of every party—and a blind piper. The room was small, and crowded with furniture as well as company. It was only divided from the kitchen by a short passage, and the steam of hot cakes, and the smoke of a turf fire, which issued thence, soon rendered[Pg 148] it distressingly10 warm. Amanda got as near the window as possible, but still could not procure11 sufficient air; and as everything for tea was not quite ready, asked one of the Miss O’Flannaghans if she would accompany her to St. Catherine’s. She answered in the affirmative. The priest, who had been smirking12 at her ever since her entrance, now shook his fat sides, and said he wished he could get her initiated13 there; “for it would do my soul good,” cried he, “to confess such a pretty little creature as you are. Though faith, I believe I should find you like Paddy McDenough, who used to come to confession14 every Easter, though the devil a thing the poor man had to confess about at all at all. So, says I to him, Paddy, my jewel, says I, I believe I must make a saint of you, and lay you on the altar.” “Oh! honey, father!” cried he, “not yet awhile, till I get a new suit of clothes on, which I shall by next Michaelmas.” Amanda left them all laughing at this story, and her father engaged in conversation with some farmers, who were desiring his interest with Lord Cherbury, for new leases on moderate terms.
Amanda had about a quarter of a mile to walk across the common; the ground was marshy15 and uneven16, and numerous stumps17 of trees denoted its having once been a noble forest, of which no memorial but these stumps, and a few tall trees immediately near the abbey, remained, that stretched their venerable arms around it, as if to shade that ruin whose progress they had witnessed, and which Amanda found well worthy18 of inspection19. She was equally astonished at its elegance20 and extent; with sacred awe21 traversing the spacious22 cloisters23, the former walks of holy meditation24, she pursued her way through winding25 passages, where vestiges26 of cells were yet discernible, over whose mouldering27 arches the grass waved in rank luxuriance, and the creeping ivy28 spread its gloomy foliage29, and viewed with reverence30 the graves of those who had once inhabited them; they surrounded that of the founder’s, which was distinguished31 by a cross, and Miss O’Flannaghan related the traditions that were current concerning him. He was a holy monk32 who had the care of a pious33 lady’s conscience; she, on her death-bed, had a remarkable34 dream, or vision, in which she thought an angel appeared, and charged her to bequeath her wealth to her confessor, who would, no doubt, make a much better use of it than those she designed it for. She obeyed the sacred injunction, and the good man immediately laid the foundation of this abbey, which he called after his benefactress, and to which he, and the community he belonged to, removed. The chapel35 was roofless,[Pg 149] but still retained many relics36 of superstitious37 piety38, which had escaped, in a tolerable degree, both time and weather. Saints and martyrs39 were curiously40 cut over the places where the altars and cisterns41 for holy water had once stood, to which Amanda passed through a long succession of elegant arches, among which were a number of tombstones, with curious devices, and unintelligible42 inscriptions43. Half hid by grass and weeds, on a flag, which she perceived must have been lately placed there, she saw some faded flowers strewn, and looking at her companion, saw a tear dropping from her on them. She gently asked the cause of it, and heard a favorite brother was interred44 there. The girl moved from the spot, but Amanda, detained by an irrepressible emotion, stayed a minute longer to contemplate45 the awful scene. All was silent, sad, and solitary46; the grass-grown aisles47 looked long untrodden by human foot, the green and mouldering walls appeared ready to crumble48 into atoms, and the wind, which howled through their crevices49, sounded to the ear of fancy as sighs of sorrow for the desolation of the place. Full of moralizing melancholy, the young, the lovely Amanda, hung over the grave of her companion’s youthful brother; and taking up the withered50 flower, wet with the tear of sisterly affection, dropped another on it, and cried, “Oh! how fit an emblem51 is this of life! how illustrative of these words—
Miss O’Flannaghan now led her through some more windings53, when, suddenly emerging from them, she found herself, to her great surprise, in a large garden, entirely54 encompassed55 by the ruins, and in the centre of it stood a long low building, which her companion informed her was a convent; a folding door at the side opened into the chapel, which they entered, and found a nun56 praying.
Amanda drew back, fearful of disturbing her; but Miss O’Flannaghan accosted57 her without ceremony, and the nun returned the salutation with the most cordial good-humor. She was fifty, as Amanda afterwards heard, for she never could, from her appearance, have conceived her to be so much. Her skin was fair, and perfectly58 free from wrinkle; the bloom and down upon her cheeks as bright and as soft as that upon a peach; though her accent at one proclaimed her country, it was not unharmonious; and the cheerful obligingness of her manner amply compensated59 the want of elegance. She wore the religious habit of the house, which was a loose flannel60 dress,[Pg 150] bound round her waist by a girdle, from which hung her beads61 and a cross; a veil of the same stuff descended62 to the ground, and a mob cap, and forehead cloth, quite concealed63 her hair.[A] Miss O’Flannaghan presented Amanda to her as a stranger, who wished to see everything curious in the chapel. “Ah! my honey,” cried she, “I am sorry she has come at a time when she will see us all in the dismals, for you know we are in mourning for our prioress (the altar was hung in black): but, my dear (turning to Amanda), do you mean to come here next Sunday? for if you do, you will find us all bright again.” Upon Amanda’s answering in the negative, she continued, “Faith, and I am sorry for that, for I have taken a great fancy to you, and when I like a person, I always wish them as great a chance of happiness as I have myself.” Amanda, smiling, said, she believed none could desire a greater, and the nun obligingly proceeded to show her all the relics and finery of the chapel; among the former was a head belonging to one of the eleven thousand virgin64 martyrs, and the latter, a chest full of rich silks, which pious ladies had given for the purpose of dressing65 the altar. Pulling a drawer from under it, she displayed a quantity of artificial flowers, which she said were made by the sisters and their scholars. Amanda wished to make a recompense for the trouble she had given, and finding they were to be sold, purchased a number, and having given some to Miss O’Flannaghan, whom she observed viewing them with a wishful eye, she left the rest with the nun, promising66 to call for them the next day. “Ay, do,” said she, “and you may be sure of a sincere welcome. You will see a set of happy poor creatures, and none happier than myself. I entered the convent at ten; I took the vows67 at fifteen, and from that time to the present, which is a long stretch, I have passed a contented68 life, thanks be to our blessed lady!” raising her sparkling eyes to heaven. They ascended69 a few steps to the place where the community sat. It was divided from the body of the chapel by a slight railing. Here stood the organ. The nun sighed as she looked at it. “Poor sister Agatha,” cried she, “we shall never get such another organist. She was always fit indeed for the heavenly choir70. Oh! my dear,” turning to Amanda, “had you known her, you would have loved her. She was our late prioress, and elected to that office at twenty-nine, which is reckoned an early age for it, on account of the cleverness it requires. She had held it but two years when she died, and we never were so comfortable as during her time, [Pg 151]she managed so well. The mourning in the chapel, as I have already told you, will be over for her next Sunday; but that which is in our hearts will not be so speedily removed.” Miss O’Flannaghan now reminded Amanda it was time to return, to which, with secret reluctance71, she consented. The nun pressed her to stay to tea; but, on hearing of her engagement, only reminded her of the promised visit. In their walk back, her companion informed Amanda that the society consisted of twelve nuns72. Their little fortunes, though sunk in one common fund, were insufficient73 to supply their necessities, which compelled them to keep a day-school, in which the neighboring children were instructed in reading, writing, plain-work, embroidery74, and artificial flowers. She also added, that the nuns were allowed to go out, but few availed themselves of that liberty, and that, except in fasting, they were strangers to the austerities practised in foreign convents.
[A] The Abbey and the Nun, which the Author has attempted to describe, were such as she really saw, but in a different part of Ireland from that which she has mentioned.
For such a society Amanda thought nothing could be better adapted than their present situation. Sheltered by the ruins, like the living entombed among the dead, their wishes, like their views, were bounded by the mouldering walls, as no object appeared beyond them which could tempt75 their wandering from their usual limits. The dreary76 common, which met their view, could not be more bleak77 and inhospitable than the world in general would have proved to these children of poverty and nature.
Father O’Gallaghan met the ladies at the door, and, familiarly taking Amanda’s hand, said, “Why, you have stayed long enough to be made a nun of. Here,” said he, “the cakes are buttered, the tea made, and we are all waiting for you. Ah! you little rogue79,” smirking in her face, “by the head of St. Patrick, those twinklers of yours were not given for the good of your soul. Here you are come to play pell-mell among the hearts of the honest Irish lads. Ah, the devil a doubt but you will have mischief80 enough to answer for by and by, and then I suppose you will be coming to me to confess and absolve81 you; but remember, my little honey, if you do, I must be paid beforehand.” Amanda disengaged her hand, and entered the parlor82, where the company, by a display of pocket-handkerchiefs on their laps, seemed prepared to make a downright meal of the good things before them. The Miss O’Flannaghans, from the toils83 of the tea-table, at last grew as red as the ribbon with which they were profusely84 ornamented85. The table at length removed, the chairs arranged, and benches placed in the passage for the old folks, the signal for a dance was given by the piper’s playing[Pg 152] an Irish jig87. The farmer’s eldest88 son, habited in his sky-blue coat, his hair combed sleek89 on his forehead, and his complexion90 as bright as a full-blown poppy, advanced to our heroine, and begged, with much modesty91, and many bows, she would do him the favor to stand up with him. She hesitated a little, when Father O’Gallaghan, giving her a tap, or rather slap, on the shoulder, made her start suddenly from her seat. He laughed heartily92 at this, declaring he liked to see a girl alive and merry. As he could not join in the dance, he consoled himself with being master of the ceremonies, and insisted on Amanda’s dancing and leading off the priest in his boots. She felt little inclined to comply; but she was one of those who can sacrifice their own inclination93 to that of others. Being directed in the figure by the priest, she went down the dance, but the floor being an earthen one, by the time she had concluded it, she begged they would excuse her sitting the remainder of the evening, she felt so extremely fatigued94. She and Fitzalan would gladly have declined staying supper, but this they found impossible, without either greatly mortifying95, or absolutely offending their hospitable78 entertainers.
The table was covered with a profusion96 of good country fare, and none seemed to enjoy it more truly than the priest. In the intervals97 of eating, his jests flew about in every direction. The scope he gave to his vivacity98 exhilarated the rest, so that, like Falstaff, he was not only witty99 himself, but a promoter of wit in others. “Pray, father,” said a young man to him, “what do you give in return for all the good cheer you get?” “My blessing100, to be sure,” replied he. “What better could I give?” “Ay, so you may think, but that is not the case with us all, I promise you. It is so pithy101, I must tell you a story about that same thing called a priest’s blessing. A poor man went one day to a priest, who had the name of being very rich and very charitable; but as all we hear is not gospel, so the poor man doubted a little the truth of the latter report, and resolved on trying him. ‘Father,’ says he, ‘I have met with great losses. My cabin was burned, my pigs stolen, and my cow fell into a ditch and broke her neck; so I am come to ask your reverence, for the love of heaven, to lend me a crown.’ ‘A crown!’ repeated the angry and astonished priest. ‘O! you rogue, where do you think I could get money to lend, except, like yourself, I had pilfered102 and stolen?’ ‘O! that is neither here nor there,’ replied the man. ‘You know I cleared the score on my conscience with you long ago, so tell me, father, if you will lend me half a crown?’ ‘No, nor a shilling.’ ‘Well, a farthing, then;[Pg 153] anything from such a good man as you.’ ‘No,’ said the priest, ‘not a mite103.’ ‘Mayn’t I have your blessing?’ then asked the man. ‘Oh! that you shall, and welcome,’ replied he, smiling. ‘Why, then, father,’ returned the other, ‘I would refuse it if you forced it upon me; for, do you see, had it been worth one farthing, you would have refused it to me.’”
“You have put me in mind of a very curious story,” exclaimed another young man, as this one concluded his. “A young knight104 went into a chapel in Spain one morning, where he observed a monk standing105 in a supplicating106 attitude, with a box in his hand. He asked him what this was for, and learned, to collect money for praying the souls of fifty Christians107 out of purgatory108, whom the Moors109 had murdered. The knight threw a piece of money into the box, and the monk, after repeating a short prayer, exclaimed, ‘There is one soul redeemed110.’ The knight threw in a second, and the priest, after the same ceremony, cried, ‘There is another free.’ Thus they both went on, one giving, and the other praying, till, by the monk’s account, all the souls were free. ‘Are you sure of this?’ inquired the knight. ‘Ay,’ replied the priest, ‘they are all assembled together at the gate of heaven, which St. Peter gladly opened for them, and they are now joyfully111 seated in Paradise.’ ‘From whence they cannot be removed, I suppose,’ said the knight. ‘Removed!’ repeated the astonished priest. ‘No, the world itself might be easier moved.’ ‘Then, if you please, holy father, return me my ducats; they have accomplished112 the purpose for which they were given, and, as I am only a poor cavalier, without a chance of being as happily situated, at least for some years, as the souls we have mutually contributed to release, I stand in great need of them.’”
Fitzalan was surprised at the freedom with which they treated the priest; but he laughed as merrily as the rest at their stories, for he knew that, though they sometimes allowed themselves a little latitude113, they neither wished nor attempted to shake off his power.
Fitzalan and Amanda withdrew as early as possible from the party, which, if it wanted every other charm, had that of novelty, at least to them. The next morning Amanda repaired to the convent, and inquired for Sister Mary, the good-natured nun she had seen the preceding evening. She immediately made her appearance, and was delighted at seeing Amanda. She conducted her to the school-room, where the rest of the nuns and the pupils were assembled; and Amanda was delighted with the content and regularity114 which appeared in the society,[Pg 154] as well as the obliging eagerness they showed to gratify her curiosity. They led her through the house, which contained a number of apartments, every nun having one to herself, furnished with a bed, chair, table, and crucifix, and then to the parlor, where their new prioress sat. She was a woman far advanced in life. Had a painter wanted to personify benevolence115, he might have chosen her for a model—so soft, so benignant was her countenance116. Sorrow, as well as time, had marked it deeply; but the mild expression of her eyes announced the most perfect resignation to that sorrow. She received Amanda with the truest politeness and most friendly warmth; and Amanda felt impressed with real reverence for her, whilst she acknowledged in her mind there could not be a happier situation for her than her present. She thought it a pity the world had been deprived of a woman who would have proved such an ornament86 to it. Sister Mary disappeared, but returned in a few minutes with cake and currant-wine, which she forced Amanda to take. The good sister was enchanted117 with her young visitor, and having no idea of concealing118 her feelings, she openly expressed her admiration119. “Dear mother,” said she, addressing the prioress, “is she not a lovely creature? What pretty eyes she has got, and what sweet little hands! Oh, if our blessed lady would but touch her heart, and make her become one of us, I should be so happy.” The prioress smiled; she was not so great an enthusiast120 as Sister Mary. “It would be a pity,” said she, “so sweet a flower should be hid amidst the ruins of St. Catherine’s.”
Amanda made an addition to the flowers; she was thanked by the nuns, and entreated121 to favor them often with a visit. Just as she reached Castle Carberry, she saw the Kilcorbans’ carriage stop at it, from which Lady Greystock and the young ladies alighted. They both spoke4 at once, and so extremely fast that Amanda scarcely understood what they said. They declared a thousand impertinent visitors had prevented their coming the preceding morning and looking at the things she had obligingly promised to show them. Amanda recollected122 no such promise, but would not contradict them, and permitted their taking what patterns they liked. Lady Greystock smiled sarcastically123 at her young kinswomen, and expressed a wish to see the castle. Amanda led her through it. Her ladyship was particularly pleased with the dressing-room. Here the young ladies, with rude and eager curiosity, examined everything; but her ladyship, who was full as curious as themselves, could not condemn124 freedoms she took herself. Observing a petticoat[Pg 155] in a tambour-frame, she admired the pattern; and hearing it was designed by Amanda, extolled125 her fine taste, and declared she should of all things like to have one worked in the same. This hint was too plain to pass unnoticed. Amanda wished to oblige, particularly any one advanced in life, and told her ladyship she would work one for her. Lady Greystock smiled most graciously at this, and pressing her hand, declared she was a charming girl. The Miss Kilcorbans winked126 slyly, and, taking her hand in turn, assured her they had conceived a most ardent127 friendship for her, and hoped she would often favor them with her company. Amanda answered those insincere professions with cool civility, and the visitors departed.
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1
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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2
appendage
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| n.附加物 | |
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bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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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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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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distressingly
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| adv. 令人苦恼地；悲惨地 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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smirking
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| v.傻笑( smirk的现在分词 ) | |
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13
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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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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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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cisterns
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| n.蓄水池，储水箱( cistern的名词复数 )；地下储水池 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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44
interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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51
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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52
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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53
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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54
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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55
encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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56
nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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57
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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58
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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59
compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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60
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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61
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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62
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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63
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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64
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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65
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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66
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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67
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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68
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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69
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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71
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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72
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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73
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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74
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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75
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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76
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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77
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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78
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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79
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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80
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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81
absolve
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| v.赦免，解除（责任等） | |
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82
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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83
toils
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| 网 | |
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84
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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85
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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87
jig
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| n.快步舞（曲）；v.上下晃动；用夹具辅助加工；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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88
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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89
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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91
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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93
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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94
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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95
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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96
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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97
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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98
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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99
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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100
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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101
pithy
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| adj.(讲话或文章)简练的 | |
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102
pilfered
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| v.偷窃（小东西），小偷( pilfer的过去式和过去分词 )；偷窃（一般指小偷小摸） | |
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103
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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104
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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105
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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106
supplicating
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的现在分词 ) | |
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107
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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108
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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109
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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110
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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111
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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112
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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113
latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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114
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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115
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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116
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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117
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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118
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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119
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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120
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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121
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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124
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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125
extolled
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| v.赞颂，赞扬，赞美( extol的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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127
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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