He rubbed his hands again and laughed softly to himself. He was a tall, bent2 old man, whose hair was snow white, but whose face was fresh and rosy3. His eyes were a boy’s eyes, large, blue and merry, and his mouth had never got over a youthful trick of smiling at any provocation4—and, oft-times, at no provocation at all.
To be sure, White Sands people would not have given you the most favourable5 opinion in the world of Old Man Shaw. First and foremost, they would have told you that he was “shiftless,” and had let his bit of a farm run out while he pottered with flowers and bugs6, or rambled7 aimlessly about in the woods, or read books along the shore. Perhaps it was true; but the old farm yielded him a living, and further than that Old Man Shaw had no ambition. He was as blithe8 as a pilgrim on a pathway climbing to the west. He had learned the rare secret that you must take happiness when you find it—that there is no use in marking the place and coming back to it at a more convenient season, because it will not be there then. And it is very easy to be happy if you know, as Old Man Shaw most thoroughly9 knew, how to find pleasure in little things. He enjoyed life, he had always enjoyed life and helped others to enjoy it; consequently his life was a success, whatever White Sands people might think of it. What if he had not “improved” his farm? There are some people to whom life will never be anything more than a kitchen garden; and there are others to whom it will always be a royal palace with domes10 and minarets11 of rainbow fancy.
The orchard of which he was so proud was as yet little more than the substance of things hoped for—a flourishing plantation12 of young trees which would amount to something later on. Old Man Shaw’s house was on the crest13 of a bare, sunny hill, with a few staunch old firs and spruces behind it—the only trees that could resist the full sweep of the winds that blew bitterly up from the sea at times. Fruit trees would never grow near it, and this had been a great grief to Sara.
“Oh, daddy, if we could just have an orchard!” she had been wont14 to say wistfully, when other farmhouses15 in White Sands were smothered16 whitely in apple bloom. And when she had gone away, and her father had nothing to look forward to save her return, he was determined17 she should find an orchard when she came back.
Over the southward hill, warmly sheltered by spruce woods and sloping to the sunshine, was a little field, so fertile that all the slack management of a life-time had not availed to exhaust it. Here Old Man Shaw set out his orchard and saw it flourish, watching and tending it until he came to know each tree as a child and loved it. His neighbours laughed at him, and said that the fruit of an orchard so far away from the house would all be stolen. But as yet there was no fruit, and when the time came for bearing there would be enough and to spare.
“Blossom and me’ll get all we want, and the boys can have the rest, if they want ‘em worse’n they want a good conscience,” said that unworldly, unbusinesslike Old Man Shaw.
On his way back home from his darling orchard he found a rare fern in the woods and dug it up for Sara—she had loved ferns. He planted it at the shady, sheltered side of the house and then sat down on the old bench by the garden gate to read her last letter—the letter that was only a note, because she was coming home soon. He knew every word of it by heart, but that did not spoil the pleasure of re-reading it every half-hour.
Old Man Shaw had not married until late in life, and had, so White Sands people said, selected a wife with his usual judgment18—which, being interpreted, meant no judgment at all; otherwise, he would never have married Sara Glover, a mere19 slip of a girl, with big brown eyes like a frightened wood creature’s, and the delicate, fleeting20 bloom of a spring Mayflower.
“The last woman in the world for a farmer’s wife—no strength or get-up about her.”
Neither could White Sands folk understand what on earth Sara Glover had married him for.
“Well, the fool crop was the only one that never failed.”
Old Man Shaw—he was Old Man Shaw even then, although he was only forty—and his girl bride had troubled themselves not at all about White Sands opinions. They had one year of perfect happiness, which is always worth living for, even if the rest of life be a dreary21 pilgrimage, and then Old Man Shaw found himself alone again, except for little Blossom. She was christened Sara, after her dead mother, but she was always Blossom to her father—the precious little blossom whose plucking had cost the mother her life.
Sara Glover’s people, especially a wealthy aunt in Montreal, had wanted to take the child, but Old Man Shaw grew almost fierce over the suggestion. He would give his baby to no one. A woman was hired to look after the house, but it was the father who cared for the baby in the main. He was as tender and faithful and deft22 as a woman. Sara never missed a mother’s care, and she grew up into a creature of life and light and beauty, a constant delight to all who knew her. She had a way of embroidering23 life with stars. She was dowered with all the charming characteristics of both parents, with a resilient vitality24 and activity which had pertained25 to neither of them. When she was ten years old she had packed all hirelings off, and kept house for her father for six delightful26 years—years in which they were father and daughter, brother and sister, and “chums.” Sara never went to school, but her father saw to her education after a fashion of his own. When their work was done they lived in the woods and fields, in the little garden they had made on the sheltered side of the house, or on the shore, where sunshine and storm were to them equally lovely and beloved. Never was comradeship more perfect or more wholly satisfactory.
“Just wrapped up in each other,” said White Sands folk, half-enviously, half-disapprovingly.
When Sara was sixteen Mrs. Adair, the wealthy aunt aforesaid, pounced27 down on White Sands in a glamour28 of fashion and culture and outer worldliness. She bombarded Old Man Shaw with such arguments that he had to succumb29. It was a shame that a girl like Sara should grow up in a place like White Sands, “with no advantages and no education,” said Mrs. Adair scornfully, not understanding that wisdom and knowledge are two entirely31 different things.
“At least let me give my dear sister’s child what I would have given my own daughter if I had had one,” she pleaded tearfully. “Let me take her with me and send her to a good school for a few years. Then, if she wishes, she may come back to you, of course.”
Privately32, Mrs. Adair did not for a moment believe that Sara would want to come back to White Sands, and her queer old father, after three years of the life she would give her.
Old Man Shaw yielded, influenced thereto not at all by Mrs. Adair’s readily flowing tears, but greatly by his conviction that justice to Sara demanded it. Sara herself did not want to go; she protested and pleaded; but her father, having become convinced that it was best for her to go, was inexorable. Everything, even her own feelings, must give way to that. But she was to come back to him without let or hindrance33 when her “schooling” was done. It was only on having this most clearly understood that Sara would consent to go at all. Her last words, called back to her father through her tears as she and her aunt drove down the lane, were,
“I’ll be back, daddy. In three years I’ll be back. Don’t cry, but just look forward to that.”
He had looked forward to it through the three long, lonely years that followed, in all of which he never saw his darling. Half a continent was between them and Mrs. Adair had vetoed vacation visits, under some specious34 pretense35. But every week brought its letter from Sara. Old Man Shaw had every one of them, tied up with one of her old blue hair ribbons, and kept in her mother’s little rose-wood work-box in the parlour. He spent every Sunday afternoon re-reading them, with her photograph before him. He lived alone, refusing to be pestered36 with kind help, but he kept the house in beautiful order.
“A better housekeeper37 than farmer,” said White Sands people. He would have nothing altered. When Sara came back she was not to be hurt by changes. It never occurred to him that she might be changed herself.
And now those three interminable years were gone, and Sara was coming home. She wrote him nothing of her aunt’s pleadings and reproaches and ready, futile38 tears; she wrote only that she would graduate in June and start for home a week later. Thenceforth Old Man Shaw went about in a state of beatitude, making ready for her homecoming. As he sat on the bench in the sunshine, with the blue sea sparkling and crinkling down at the foot of the green slope, he reflected with satisfaction that all was in perfect order. There was nothing left to do save count the hours until that beautiful, longed-for day after to-morrow. He gave himself over to a reverie, as sweet as a day-dream in a haunted valley.
The red roses were out in bloom. Sara had always loved those red roses—they were as vivid as herself, with all her own fullness of life and joy of living. And, besides these, a miracle had happened in Old Man Shaw’s garden. In one corner was a rose-bush which had never bloomed, despite all the coaxing39 they had given it—“the sulky rose-bush,” Sara had been wont to call it. Lo! this summer had flung the hoarded40 sweetness of years into plentiful41 white blossoms, like shallow ivory cups with a haunting, spicy42 fragrance43. It was in honour of Sara’s home-coming—so Old Man Shaw liked to fancy. All things, even the sulky rose-bush, knew she was coming back, and were making glad because of it.
He was gloating over Sara’s letter when Mrs. Peter Blewett came. She told him she had run up to see how he was getting on, and if he wanted anything seen to before Sara came.
“No’m, thank you, ma’am. Everything is attended to. I couldn’t let anyone else prepare for Blossom. Only to think, ma’am, she’ll be home the day after to-morrow. I’m just filled clear through, body, soul, and spirit, with joy to think of having my little Blossom at home again.”
Mrs. Blewett smiled sourly. When Mrs. Blewett smiled it foretokened trouble, and wise people had learned to have sudden business elsewhere before the smile could be translated into words. But Old Man Shaw had never learned to be wise where Mrs. Blewett was concerned, although she had been his nearest neighbour for years, and had pestered his life out with advice and “neighbourly turns.”
Mrs. Blewett was one with whom life had gone awry44. The effect on her was to render happiness to other people a personal insult. She resented Old Man Shaw’s beaming delight in his daughter’s return, and she “considered it her duty” to rub the bloom off straightway.
Old Man Shaw looked slightly bewildered.
“Of course she’ll be contented,” he said slowly. “Isn’t it her home? And ain’t I here?”
“Well, it’s a good thing you’re so sure of it, I suppose. If ‘twas my daughter that was coming back to White Sands, after three years of fashionable life among rich, stylish48 folks, and at a swell49 school, I wouldn’t have a minute’s peace of mind. I’d know perfectly50 well that she’d look down on everything here, and be discontented and miserable51.”
“YOUR daughter might,” said Old Man Shaw, with more sarcasm52 than he had supposed he had possessed53, “but Blossom won’t.”
“Maybe not. It’s to be hoped not, for both your sakes, I’m sure. But I’d be worried if ‘twas me. Sary’s been living among fine folks, and having a gay, exciting time, and it stands to reason she’ll think White Sands fearful lonesome and dull. Look at Lauretta Bradley. She was up in Boston for just a month last winter and she’s never been able to endure White Sands since.”
“Lauretta Bradley and Sara Shaw are two different people,” said Sara’s father, trying to smile.
“And your house, too,” pursued Mrs. Blewett ruthlessly. “It’s such a queer, little, old place. What’ll she think of it after her aunt’s? I’ve heard tell Mrs. Adair lives in a perfect palace. I’ll just warn you kindly55 that Sary’ll probably look down on you, and you might as well be prepared for it. Of course, I suppose she kind of thinks she has to come back, seeing she promised you so solemn she would. But I’m certain she doesn’t want to, and I don’t blame her either.”
Even Mrs. Blewett had to stop for breath, and Old Man Shaw found his opportunity. He had listened, dazed and shrinking, as if she were dealing56 him physical blows, but now a swift change swept over him. His blue eyes flashed ominously57, straight into Mrs. Blewett’s straggling, ferrety gray orbs58.
“If you’re said your say, Martha Blewett, you can go,” he said passionately59. “I’m not going to listen to another such word. Take yourself out of my sight, and your malicious60 tongue out of my hearing!”
Mrs. Blewett went, too dumfounded by such an unheard-of outburst in mild Old Man Shaw to say a word of defence or attack. When she had gone Old Man Shaw, the fire all faded from his eyes, sank back on his bench. His delight was dead; his heart was full of pain and bitterness. Martha Blewett was a warped61 and ill-natured woman, but he feared there was altogether too much truth in what she said. Why had he never thought of it before? Of course White Sands would seem dull and lonely to Blossom; of course the little gray house where she was born would seem a poor abode62 after the splendours of her aunt’s home. Old Man Shaw walked through his garden and looked at everything with new eyes. How poor and simple everything was! How sagging63 and weather-beaten the old house! He went in, and up-stairs to Sara’s room. It was neat and clean, just as she had left it three years ago. But it was small and dark; the ceiling was discoloured, the furniture old-fashioned and shabby; she would think it a poor, mean place. Even the orchard over the hill brought him no comfort now. Blossom would not care for orchards64. She would be ashamed of her stupid old father and the barren farm. She would hate White Sands, and chafe65 at the dull existence, and look down on everything that went to make up his uneventful life.
Old Man Shaw was unhappy enough that night to have satisfied even Mrs. Blewett had she known. He saw himself as he thought White Sands folk must see him—a poor, shiftless, foolish old man, who had only one thing in the world worthwhile, his little girl, and had not been of enough account to keep her.
“Oh, Blossom, Blossom!” he said, and when he spoke66 her name it sounded as if he spoke the name of one dead.
After a little the worst sting passed away. He refused to believe long that Blossom would be ashamed of him; he knew she would not. Three years could not so alter her loyal nature—no, nor ten times three years. But she would be changed—she would have grown away from him in those three busy, brilliant years. His companionship could no longer satisfy her. How simple and childish he had been to expect it! She would be sweet and kind—Blossom could never be anything else. She would not show open discontent or dissatisfaction; she would not be like Lauretta Bradley; but it would be there, and he would divine it, and it would break his heart. Mrs. Blewett was right. When he had given Blossom up he should not have made a half-hearted thing of his sacrifice—he should not have bound her to come back to him.
He walked about in his little garden until late at night, under the stars, with the sea crooning and calling to him down the slope. When he finally went to bed he did not sleep, but lay until morning with tear-wet eyes and despair in his heart. All the forenoon he went about his usual daily work absently. Frequently he fell into long reveries, standing30 motionless wherever he happened to be, and looking dully before him. Only once did he show any animation67. When he saw Mrs. Blewett coming up the lane he darted68 into the house, locked the door, and listened to her knocking in grim silence. After she had gone he went out, and found a plate of fresh doughnuts, covered with a napkin, placed on the bench at the door. Mrs. Blewett meant to indicate thus that she bore him no malice69 for her curt70 dismissal the day before; possibly her conscience gave her some twinges also. But her doughnuts could not minister to the mind she had diseased. Old Man Shaw took them up; carried them to the pig-pen, and fed them to the pigs. It was the first spiteful thing he had done in his life, and he felt a most immoral71 satisfaction in it.
In mid-afternoon he went out to the garden, finding the new loneliness of the little house unbearable72. The old bench was warm in the sunshine. Old Man Shaw sat down with a long sigh, and dropped his white head wearily on his breast. He had decided73 what he must do. He would tell Blossom that she might go back to her aunt and never mind about him—he would do very well by himself and he did not blame her in the least.
He was still sitting broodingly there when a girl came up the lane. She was tall and straight, and walked with a kind of uplift in her motion, as if it would be rather easier to fly than not. She was dark, with a rich dusky sort of darkness, suggestive of the bloom on purple plums, or the glow of deep red apples among bronze leaves. Her big brown eyes lingered on everything in sight, and little gurgles of sound now and again came through her parted lips, as if inarticulate joy were thus expressing itself.
At the garden gate she saw the bent figure on the old bench, and the next minute she was flying along the rose walk.
“Daddy!” she called, “daddy!”
Old Man Shaw stood up in hasty bewilderment; then a pair of girlish arms were about his neck, and a pair of warm red lips were on his; girlish eyes, full of love, were looking up into his, and a never-forgotten voice, tingling74 with laughter and tears blended into one delicious chord, was crying,
“Oh, daddy, is it really you? Oh, I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again!”
Old Man Shaw held her tightly in a silence of amazement75 and joy too deep for wonder. Why, this was his Blossom—the very Blossom who had gone away three years ago! A little taller, a little more womanly, but his own dear Blossom, and no stranger. There was a new heaven and a new earth for him in the realization76.
“Oh, Baby Blossom!” he murmured, “Little Baby Blossom!”
Sara rubbed her cheek against the faded coat sleeve.
“Daddy darling, this moment makes up for everything, doesn’t it?”
“But—but—where did you come from?” he asked, his senses beginning to struggle out of their bewilderment of surprise. “I didn’t expect you till to-morrow. You didn’t have to walk from the station, did you? And your old daddy not there to welcome you!”
Sara laughed, swung herself back by the tips of her fingers and danced around him in the childish fashion of long ago.
“I found I could make an earlier connection with the C.P.A. yesterday and get to the Island last night. I was in such a fever to get home that I jumped at the chance. Of course I walked from the station—it’s only two miles and every step was a benediction77. My trunks are over there. We’ll go after them to-morrow, daddy, but just now I want to go straight to every one of the dear old nooks and spots at once.”
“You must get something to eat first,” he urged fondly. “And there ain’t much in the house, I’m afraid. I was going to bake to-morrow morning. But I guess I can forage78 you out something, darling.”
He was sorely repenting79 having given Mrs. Blewett’s doughnuts to the pigs, but Sara brushed all such considerations aside with a wave of her hand.
“I don’t want anything to eat just now. By and by we’ll have a snack; just as we used to get up for ourselves whenever we felt hungry. Don’t you remember how scandalized White Sands folks used to be at our irregular hours? I’m hungry; but it’s soul hunger, for a glimpse of all the dear old rooms and places. Come—there are four hours yet before sunset, and I want to cram80 into them all I’ve missed out of these three years. Let us begin right here with the garden. Oh, daddy, by what witchcraft81 have you coaxed82 that sulky rose-bush into bloom?”
“No witchcraft at all—it just bloomed because you were coming home, baby,” said her father.
They had a glorious afternoon of it, those two children. They explored the garden and then the house. Sara danced through every room, and then up to her own, holding fast to her father’s hand.
“Oh, it’s lovely to see my little room again, daddy. I’m sure all my old hopes and dreams are waiting here for me.”
She ran to the window and threw it open, leaning out.
“Daddy, there’s no view in the world so beautiful as that curve of sea between the headlands. I’ve looked at magnificent scenery—and then I’d shut my eyes and conjure83 up that picture. Oh, listen to the wind keening in the trees! How I’ve longed for that music!”
He took her to the orchard and followed out his crafty84 plan of surprise perfectly. She rewarded him by doing exactly what he had dreamed of her doing, clapping her hands and crying out:
“Oh, daddy! Why, daddy!”
They finished up with the shore, and then at sunset they came back and sat down on the old garden bench. Before them a sea of splendour, burning like a great jewel, stretched to the gateways85 of the west. The long headlands on either side were darkly purple, and the sun left behind him a vast, cloudless arc of fiery86 daffodil and elusive87 rose. Back over the orchard in a cool, green sky glimmered88 a crystal planet, and the night poured over them a clear wine of dew from her airy chalice89. The spruces were rejoicing in the wind, and even the battered90 firs were singing of the sea. Old memories trooped into their hearts like shining spirits.
“Baby Blossom,” said Old Man Shaw falteringly91, “are you quite sure you’ll be contented here? Out there”—with a vague sweep of his hand towards horizons that shut out a world far removed from White Sands—“there’s pleasure and excitement and all that. Won’t you miss it? Won’t you get tired of your old father and White Sands?”
Sara patted his hand gently.
“The world out there is a good place,” she said thoughtfully, “I’ve had three splendid years and I hope they’ll enrich my whole life. There are wonderful things out there to see and learn, fine, noble people to meet, beautiful deeds to admire; but,” she wound her arm about his neck and laid her cheek against his—“there is no daddy!”
And Old Man Shaw looked silently at the sunset—or, rather, through the sunset to still grander and more radiant splendours beyond, of which the things seen were only the pale reflections, not worthy92 of attention from those who had the gift of further sight.
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1
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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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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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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6
bugs
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| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
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7
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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10
domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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minarets
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| n.（清真寺旁由报告祈祷时刻的人使用的）光塔( minaret的名词复数 ) | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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farmhouses
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| n.农舍，农场的主要住房( farmhouse的名词复数 ) | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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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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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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embroidering
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| v.（在织物上）绣花( embroider的现在分词 )；刺绣；对…加以渲染（或修饰）；给…添枝加叶 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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pertained
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| 关于( pertain的过去式和过去分词 )； 有关； 存在； 适用 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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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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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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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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hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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specious
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| adj.似是而非的；adv.似是而非地 | |
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pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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38
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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distilled
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| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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47
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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49
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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orbs
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| abbr.off-reservation boarding school 在校寄宿学校n.球，天体，圆形物( orb的名词复数 ) | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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chafe
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| v.擦伤；冲洗；惹怒 | |
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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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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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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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tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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forage
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| n.(牛马的)饲料，粮草；v.搜寻，翻寻 | |
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repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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cram
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| v.填塞，塞满，临时抱佛脚，为考试而学习 | |
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witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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82
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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84
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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gateways
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| n.网关( gateway的名词复数 )；门径；方法；大门口 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
chalice
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| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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falteringly
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| 口吃地，支吾地 | |
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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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