And there was his chief setting him a bad example. The young man had spent part of his first morning wandering through the mass of documents and scraps3 of paper which Lawyer Ed called his book-keeping. Between items of a professional nature were memoranda4 or reports of session meetings, Highland5 Club meetings, political meetings, country tea-meetings, everything and anything except law. What there was of the latter was connected only with such clients as were of ample means. All the poor folk for miles around came to Lawyer Ed with their troubles and were advised, scolded, pulled or paid out of them, and never so much as a stroke of a pen to record the good deed. If they paid him, well and good; if they did not, so much the better. And the price of a ticket to the Holy Land and back—that trip which had not yet materialised—might have been many times written down, had Lawyer Ed known anything about book-keeping. But Lawyer Ed's policy in all his career, had been something the same as that of his friend Doctor Blair across the way—to keep his people of his practice well, rather than to cure them when they were ill. So if he could manage it none of his clients ever went into a law-court. It was good for the clients, but bad for such things as trips abroad. Roderick did not see that side of his chief's book-keeping. He did not know that the man could put through more work in an hour than most men could in a day, and saw only the meetings recorded which took so much of his time. And he said to himself that that was not the way to become great. Some day he intended to be one of the leading advocates of Canada. He was not conceited6. His was only the boundless7 hopefulness of youth coupled with the assurance which experience had already given him, that whenever he set his mind to anything, he accomplished8 it, no matter how many difficulties stood in the way. So he was determined9 to concentrate all his efforts on his work, and as for serving humanity, he could do it best, he assured himself, by being a success in his profession.
He was just entering upon his second day when his advice was sought from an unexpected source and in connection with an entirely10 new subject. Lawyer Ed had gone out and Roderick was seated at his desk when some one entered the hall and tapped hesitatingly on the inner door. Roderick called an invitation to come in, and Mr. Alfred Wilbur, in perfect white ducks and white canvas shoes, stepped inside.
"So you've come to be Mr. Brians' partner, haven't you, Mr. McRae?" he enquired11. Mr. Wilbur was a well-mannered young man and had never adopted the easy familiar way of naming people which was current in the town.
"Say rather his office-boy, for a while," said Roderick.
Mr. Wilbur protested. "Oh, now, Mr. McRae, you're just quite too modest. Every one's saying how well you did at college and school; and that you're going to make your mark—you know you are."
Roderick wondered why the young man should take such pains to be polite to him.
"Did you want to see Lawyer Ed?" he asked.
"No, no, thank you," he cried in alarm. "He's not in, is he? No, I just wanted to see you, Mr. McRae—not professionally you understand but—that is—personally,—on a very sacred matter."
His voice dropped to a whisper, he crossed his feet in front of him, then drew them under his chair, twirled his hat, smoothed down the back of his head vigorously, and looked in dismay at the floor.
"I hope I can do something for you," said Rod encouragingly, feeling sorry for his evident distress12.
"Thank you so much!" cried the young man gratefully. "It's about—that is—I think, an old acquaintance of yours—Miss Murray, the new teacher in the East Ward1. She is an old acquaintance, isn't she?"
It was Roderick's turn to feel hot and look embarrassed. He answered his first client very shortly.
"No, she isn't."
"So I did."
"But you met her before surely?" asked the young man, aghast at the notion of Roderick's boldness.
"Yes."
"In Toronto?"
"Yes."
"Long ago?"
"Last autumn."
"Is her home there?"
"I believe so. It was then."
"Oh, you don't know her very well then?"
"No, I don't. And I don't know why on earth I've got to be put through a catechism about it."
"Oh, say! You really must think I'm awful!" cried the poor young man contritely15. "I do beg your pardon, Mr. McRae. It really must have sounded shocking to you. But, well—I—did you ever meet a young—any one whom you knew—at first sight—was the one person in all the world for you?" His voice sank. The day was cool and breezy, but poor Afternoon Tea Willie's face was damp and hot and he wiped it carefully with his fine hem-stitched handkerchief, murmuring apologies.
"No, I never did," said Roderick quite violently, for no reason at all.
"I beg your pardon, I'm sure," murmured his visitor, vaguely16 alarmed. "You can't understand my feelings then. But that's really what I felt when I saw her. It was a revelation, one of those swift certain intuitions of the soul, and I—you don't mind my telling you this, do you, Mr. McRae?"
"Oh, no, not if you don't mind," said Roderick.
"It's so good of you," said poor Afternoon Tea Willie. "You were the only one I could come to, the only one who seemed to know her. She boards at Miss Armstrong's, but Miss Annabel—you know Miss Annabel? No? Well, I wouldn't for worlds say anything against a lady, but Miss Annabel doesn't seem to like me. I don't blame her, you know, but I don't like to go there. It—I seem to bother her dreadfully, so I thought—I knew you wouldn't mind introducing me some time, would you?"
"I really don't know Miss Murray well enough to do that," said Roderick decidedly. "And I wish you wouldn't say anything about our having met before. I don't think she remembers me very well. Ask Mr. Brians to introduce you."
"I did, but he refused."
"Perhaps he was only in fun, try him again—or Mrs. Adam. She teaches with her."
"Oh my! the very person." Mr. Wilbur sprang up. "Oh, I can't think why I never thought of her before. I'll call on Madame this afternoon. I can't thank you enough, Mr. McRae, for the kind suggestion." The young man hurried out, profusely18 expressing his gratitude19. Afternoon Tea Willie had absolutely nothing in the world to do, but he was always in a hurry. Perhaps the reason was that the ladies of the town ordered him about so. He was the most obliging young man, and being always available, he was used to the utmost, and was driven like a galley20 slave from dawn to dark. As he went down the steps he turned back and looked up at Roderick rapturously.
"Say!" he whispered. "Did you ever see such eyes? Don't they make you feel just as if you were going down in an elevator?"
But Roderick turned quickly away, with an unreasonable21 and very unbusinesslike desire to kick his first client down the steps. He had almost closed the door behind him when a loud clear voice from the street called his name. It was just four o'clock, the hour when all the young ladies of Algonquin, dressed in their best, walked down to the post-office for the afternoon mail which came in a half-hour earlier. This afternoon post-office parade was a social function, for only people of leisure and distinction were at liberty at that hour. The young gentlemen from the bank generally emerged about that time too, and came striding down to the post-office looking worried and flurried as became gentlemen with the finances of the whole town and half the country weighing them down. After they had all met at the post-office, they went up to the ice-cream and candy palace on Main Street, or out on the lake, or strolled off into the park.
It was a member of the post-office parade who was hailing Roderick so gaily22. A pretty group was rustling23 past the office, all muslin frills and silk sashes and flowers of every colour, and the prettiest and best dressed of them all came running up the steps to his side, with a swish of silken skirts and a whiff of violet perfume.
It was Miss Leslie Graham, the girl he had helped out of the lake, not forlorn and bedraggled now, but immaculate and dainty, from the rose wreath on her big hat to the tip of her white kid shoe.
"Hello!" she cried gaily. "I thought you'd surely 'phone over to see whether I needed to make my will or not. You're not much of a lawyer."
Roderick laughed. She was so frank and boyish that she put him quite at his ease.
"Well,—not knowing I was the family advocate, I didn't like to," he said slyly.
She laughed delightedly. "You're going to be after this, I can tell you. Daddy's out of town and he doesn't know yet!"
"There's no need to worry him by telling."
"Oh, but there just is. I haven't told a soul yet, and I nearly had to commit murder to keep it from Mother. Fred's in a pink fit every minute for fear I'll let it out. I've got heaps of fun holding it over his head. It makes him good and obedient. Is Lawyer Ed in?"
"No. Do you wish to see him?"
"No, of course not. I just wondered if he wouldn't keep house, though, for a few minutes, while you came along and joined the bunch. We're all going to make Alf take us for ice-cream. We spied him leaving here. Can't you come?"
"Thank you, but I'm afraid I couldn't leave," said Roderick, rather taken aback by her frankness. That ideal woman, who sat dimly enthroned in the recesses24 of his heart, never offered her favours, they had to be sued for, and she was apt to sit in judgment25 on the girl who departed from her strict rule.
"Come on, Les!" called a voice from the lingering group she had left. "Here's Alf. He's going to treat us all. Ho! A-a-lf!" The young ladies of Algonquin, had lived in such close proximity26 to each other from childhood that a playmate could always be summoned even from the other end of the town by a clarion27 call, and they had never seen any reason for changing their convenient method when long skirts and piled-up hair might have been supposed to demand a less artless manner. But then every one shouted across blocks, and besides, every one knew that Afternoon Tea Willie just dearly loved to be yelled at. He whirled about now, waved his hat, and came hurrying back, with the peculiar28 jerky irregular motion of his feet, that always marked his movements.
"Coming!" she cried. "So sorry you can't come," she added, turning to Roderick, "but we'll give you another invitation." She looked disappointed, and a little inclined to pout31, but she waved her hand as she ran down the steps and joined the group of lace and flowers now fluttering down the side-walk towards the ice cream parlour.
"Leslie's made a new conquest," cried a tall girl with flashing black eyes. "He seemed frantically32 anxious to come with you, my dear. I don't see how you got rid of him."
"Who is he, Les?" cried another. "If it's a new young man come to this girl-ridden town you simply have got to pass him round and introduce him."
"Why, he's Lawyer Ed's new partner, you goosie," cried a dozen voices, for it was inexcusable for any young lady not to know all about Lawyer Ed's business.
"A lawyer, how perfectly33 lovely!" cried a plump little girl with pink cheeks and dancing eyes. "It's such a relief to see some one beside bank boys. I'm going to ask his advice about suing Afternoon Tea Willie for breach34 of promise. What's his name, Leslie?"
"Why, his name's Roderick McRae," cried the young lady with the black eyes. "I remember when he used to go to school in a grey homespun suit with the hay sticking all over it. He's the son of old Angus McRae who used to bring our cabbage and lettuce35 to the back door!"
The girl whirled about and faced her companions, her eyes blazing, her checks red. "I didn't pick him up at all!" she cried hotly. "He picked me up the other night, out of the lake over by Breezy Point, where Fred Hamilton upset me out of his canoe. And if Roderick McRae hadn't come along I'd have been drowned. So now!"
It had all come out in a rush. She had fully13 intended to shield Fred. But she could not see her preserver scoffed37 at by those Baldwin girls. Immediately there was a chorus of enquiries and exclamations38. Afternoon Tea Willie was overcome with distress and apologised for not being there. Old Angus McRae's son immediately became a hero.
The little plump girl with the big blue eyes sighed enviously39. "Oh dear! How lucky! I think it's a shame all the good things happen to you, Leslie; and he's so handsome!"
Leslie Graham, by virtue41 of the fact that her mother belonged to the reigning42 house of Armstrong, and her father was the richest man in Algonquin, was leader of the younger social set. But Miss Anna Baldwin of the black eyes was her most powerful rival. They were constant companions and very dear friends, and never agreed upon anything. So immediately upon Miss Graham's daring announcement that this new and very exclusive club should be entered by one not in their set, Miss Baldwin cried, "Oh, how perfectly sweet and democratic! Our milkman saved our house from burning down one morning last winter, don't you remember, Lou? We must make Mamma ask him to her next tea!"
Thereupon the group broke up into two sections, one loudly proclaiming its democratic principles, the other as vigorously upholding the necessity for drawing rigid43 social lines. And they all swept into the ice-cream palace, like a swarm44 of hot, angry bees, followed by Afternoon Tea Willie in great distress, apologising now to one side, now to the other.
Another call from his work came to Roderick the next afternoon when he paid his first visit to Doctor Leslie. The old Manse did not look just as hospitable45 as of old, there were no crowds on the veranda46 and in the orchard47 any more. For the foster mother of the congregation had left her children mourning, and gone to continue her good work in a brighter and better world.
Viney was still in the kitchen, however, doing all in her power to make the lonely minister comfortable. She had been away from the Manse for some years in the interval48, but was now returned with a half-grown daughter to help her. Viney had left Mrs. Leslie to marry "Mahogany Bill," a mulatto from the negro settlement out in Oro. But Bill had been of no account, and after his not too sadly mourned demise49, his wife, promoted to the dignified50 title of Mammy Viney, had returned with her little girl to the Algonquin Manse, and there she was still.
"And your father has you home at last, Roderick," said the minister, rubbing his hands with pleasure and surveying the young man's fine honest face with affection. "He has lived for this day. I hope you won't get so absorbed in your practice that you won't be able to run out to the farm often."
"Aunt Kirsty will see to that," laughed Roderick.
The minister beamed. "I'm afraid I shall get into her bad books then, for I am going to keep you here as often as possible. You are just the young man I want in the church, Roderick—one who will be a leader of the young men. Algonquin is changing," he added sadly. "Perhaps because it is growing rapidly. I am afraid there is a rather fast set of young men being developed here. It makes my heart ache to see fine young fellows like Fred Hamilton and Walter Armstrong learning to gamble, and yet that is just what is happening. There's a great work here for a strong young man with just your upbringing, my boy. We must save these lads from themselves—'Who knoweth,'" he added with a smile, "'but thou hast come to the Kingdom for such an hour.'"
There was a great deal more of the same earnest call to work, and Roderick went away conscious of a slight feeling of impatience51. It was just what his father was always saying, but how was he to attend to his work, if he were to have all the responsibility of the young men of the town and all the people of Willow52 Lane upon him? He was inclined to think that every man should be responsible for himself. He was kind-hearted and generous when the impulse came, but he did not want to be reminded that his life's work was to be his brother's keeper. His work was to be a lawyer. He did not yet realise that in being his brother's keeper he would make of himself the best kind of lawyer.
The next evening, when he prepared to go home, Lawyer Ed declared he must just take his horse and drive him out to the farm and have a visit with Angus and a drink of Aunt Kirsty's butter-milk. So, early in the evening, they drove through the town down towards the Pine Road. Willow Lane still stood there. The old houses were more dilapidated than ever, and there were more now than there used to be. Doctor Blair's horse and buggy stood before one of them. Willow Lane was on low, swampy53 ground, and was the abode54 of fevers and diseases of all sorts.
As they whirled past it, Lawyer Ed waved his whip towards it in disgust. "That place is a disgrace to Algonquin," he blustered55. "We boast of our town being the most healthful and beautiful in Ontario, and it's got the ugliest and the most unsanitary spot just right there that you'd find in Canada. If J. P. gets to be mayor next year he'll fix it up. He's having it drained already. I hope you'll get interested in municipal affairs, Rod. I tell you it's great. I'm so glad I'll have more time for town affairs now that you're here. But you must get going there too. There's nothing so bad for a professional man as to get so tied down to his work that he can't see an inch beyond it. You can't help getting interested in this place. It's going ahead so. Now, the lake front there—"
Lawyer Ed was off on his pet scheme, the beautifying of that part of the lake front that was now made hideous56 by factory and mill and railroad track and rows of tumble-down boathouses.
And Roderick listened half-heartedly, interested only because it interested his friend. They passed along the Jericho Road, with its sweet-smelling pines; the soft mists of early autumn clothed Lake Algonquin in a veil of amethyst57. The long heavy grass by the roadside, and masses of golden-rod shining dimly in the evening-light told that summer had finished her task. She was waiting the call to leave.
Lawyer Ed was not half through with the esplanade along the lake front when they reached Peter McDuff's home. It was a forlorn old weather-beaten house with thistles and mullen and sturdy burdocks growing close to the doorway58. An old gnarled apple-tree, weary and discouraged looking, stood at one side of the house, its blackened branches touching59 the ground. At the other lay a broken plow60, on top of a heap of rubbish. A sagging61 wood-pile and a sorry-looking pump completed the dreariness62.
And yet there were signs of a better day. The dilapidated barn was well-built, the fences had once been strong and well put together, and around the house were the struggling remains63 of an old garden, with many a flower run wild among the thistles. The history of the home had followed that of its owner. Peter Fiddle64 had once been a highly respected man, with not a little education. His wife had been a good woman, and when their boy came, for a time, the father had given up his wild ways and his drinking and had settled down to work his little farm. But he never quite gave up the drink, though Angus McRae's hand held him back from it many and many a time. But Angus had been ill for a couple of years, and Peter had gone very far astray when the helping65 hand was removed.
He had gone steadily66 downward until his powers were wasted and his health ruined. His wife gave up the struggle, when young Peter was but a child, and closed her tired eyes on the dirt and misery67 of her ruined home. Then Angus McRae had regained68 his health and his grip on Peter, and since then, with many disappointments and backslidings, he had managed to bring him struggling back to a semblance69 of his old manhood. He was not redeemed70 yet. But old Angus never gave up hope.
Poor Young Peter had grown up dull of brain and heavy of foot, handicapped before birth by the drink. But he had clung doggedly71 to that one idea which Angus McRae had drilled into him, that he must, as he valued his life, avoid that dread17 thing which had ruined his father and killed his mother.
Lawyer Ed pulled up his horse before the house. Young Peter had not yet come in with the Inverness, but he looked about for Peter Fiddle. He had been sober for a much longer time than usual in this interval, and both he and Angus were keeping an anxious, hopeful eye upon him.
"I wonder where Peter is," he said.
For answer Roderick pointed30 down the road before them. A horse and wagon72 stood close to the road-side. They drove up to it, and there, stretched on the seat of his wagon, his horse cropping the grass by the way-side, lay poor old Peter, dead drunk.
"Well, well, well!" cried Lawyer Ed in mingled73 disgust and disappointment. "He's gone again, and your father had such hopes of him!" He gave the lines to Roderick and leaped out.
"Hi, Peter!" he shouted, shaking the man violently. "Wake up! It's time for breakfast, man!"
But Peter Fiddle made no more response than a log. And then a look of boyish mischief74 danced into Lawyer Ed's young eyes.
"Come here, Rod!" he cried. "Let's fix him up and see what he'll do when we get back."
Roderick alighted and helped unhitch the old horse from the wagon. They led him back to the house, watered him, put him into the old stable and fed him. When they returned, Peter still lay asleep on the wagon seat, and they drove off. Lawyer Ed in a fit of boyish mirth.
It was heavy news for old Angus when they sat around the supper table, eating Aunt Kirsty's apple pie and cream; but the good Samaritan was not discouraged. "Well, well," he said with a sigh, "he kept away from it longer this time than ever. He's improving. Eh, eh, poor body, poor Peter!"
"It would seem as if the work of the Good Samaritan is never done, Angus," said Lawyer Ed. "I suppose there will always be thieves on the Jericho Road."
"I was just wondering to-day," said Angus thoughtfully, "if, while we go on picking up the men on the Jericho Road, we couldn't be doing something to keep the thieves from doing their evil work. There's Peter now. If we can't keep him away from the drink, don't you think we ought to try to keep the drink away from him?"
"Lawyer Ed'll have to get a local option by-law passed in Algonquin, Father," said Roderick.
"Eh, Lad," cried the old man, his face radiant, "it is your father would be the happy man to see that day. There is a piece of work for you two now."
"I'm ready," cried Lawyer Ed enthusiastically. "If I could only see that cursed traffic on the run it would be the joy of my life to encourage it with a good swift kick. We'll start a campaign right away. Won't we, Rod?"
"All right," cried Roderick, pleased at the look in his father's face. "You give your orders. I'm here to carry them out."
"There, Angus! You've got your policeman for the Jericho Road. We'll do it yet. If we get the liquor business down, as Grandma Armstrong says, we'll knock it conscientious76."
Old Angus followed them to the gate when they drove away, his heart swelling77 with high hope. He would live to see all his ambitions realised in Roderick. He sat up very late that night and when he went to bed and remembered how the Lad had promised to help rid Peter of the drink curse, he could not sleep until he had sung the long-meter doxology. He sang it very softly, for Kirsty was asleep and it might be hard to explain to her if she were disturbed; nevertheless he sang it with an abounding78 joy and faith.
As Roderick and Lawyer Ed drove homeward, down the moon-lit length of the Pine Road; they were surprised to hear ahead of them, within a few rods of Peter Fiddle's house, the sound of singing. Very wavering and uncertain, now loud and high, now dropping to a low wail79, came the slow splendid notes of Kilmarnock to the sublime80 words of the 103rd psalm81.
The two in the buggy looked at each other. "Peter!" cried Lawyer Ed in dismay.
When Old Peter was only a little bit drunk he inclined to frivolity82 and gaiety, and was given to playing the fiddle and dancing, but when he was very drunk, he was very solemn, and intensely religious. He gave himself to the singing of psalms83, and if propped84 up would preach a sermon worthy85 of Doctor Leslie himself.
A turn in the road brought him into sight. There, between the silver mirror of the moonlit lake and the dark scented86 green of the forest, insensible to the beauty of either, sat the man. He was perched perilously88 on the seat of his wagon and was swaying from side to side, swinging his arms about him and singing in a loud maudlin89 voice, the fine old psalm that he had learned long, long ago before he became less than a man.
Lawyer Ed pulled up before him.
"Oh Peter, Peter!" he cried, "is this you?"
Peter Fiddle stopped singing, with the righteously indignant air of one whose devotions have been interrupted by a rude barbarian90.
"And who will you be," he demanded witheringly, "that dares to be speaking to the McDuff in such a fashion? Who will you be, indeed?"
"Come, come, Peter, none of that," said his friend soothingly91. "I cannot think who you are. You surely can't be my old friend, Peter McDuff, sitting by the roadside this way. Who are you, anyway?"
Peter became suddenly grave. The question raised a terrible doubt in his mind. He looked about him with the wavering gaze of a man on board a heaving ship. His unsteady glance fell on the empty wagon shafts92 lying on the ground. He looked at them in bewilderment, then took off his old cap and scratched his head.
"How is this, I'd like to know?" demanded Lawyer Ed, pushing his advantage. "If you're not Peter McDuff, who are you? And where is the horse gone?"
Roderick climbed out of the buggy, smothering93 his laughter, and leaving the two to argue the question, he went after the truant94 horse which might help to establish his master's lost identity. Lawyer Ed dismounted and helped him hitch75 it, and apparently95 satisfied by its reappearance, Peter stretched himself on the seat and went soundly asleep again. He lay all undisturbed while they drove him in at his gate, and put his horse away once more. And he did not move even when they lifted him from his perch87 and, carrying him into the house, put him into his bed.
And just as they entered the town they met poor young Peter plodding96 slowly and heavily towards his dreary97 home.
"We must do something for those two, Rod," said Lawyer Ed, shaking his head pityingly. "We must get Local Option or something that'll help Peter."
But Roderick was thinking of what Miss Leslie Graham had said, and wondering if it might mean that he would be asked to handle the big affairs of Graham and Company.
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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alluringly
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| 诱人地，妩媚地 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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determined
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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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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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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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contritely
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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profusely
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gratitude
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galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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gaily
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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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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proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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clarion
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| n.尖音小号声；尖音小号 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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pout
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| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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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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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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lettuce
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| n.莴苣；生菜 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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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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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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swampy
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| adj.沼泽的，湿地的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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blustered
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| v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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amethyst
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| n.紫水晶 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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plow
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| n.犁，耕地，犁过的地；v.犁，费力地前进[英]plough | |
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sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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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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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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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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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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82
frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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83
psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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84
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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86
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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perilously
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| adv.充满危险地，危机四伏地 | |
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maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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90
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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92
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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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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