At sunset Sidney hurried to her room to take off the soiled and faded cotton dress she had worn while milking. She had milked eight cows and pumped water for the milk-cans afterward2 in the fag-end of a hot summer day. She did that every night, but tonight she had hurried more than usual because she wanted to get her letter written before the early farm bedtime. She had been thinking it out while she milked the cows in the stuffy3 little pen behind the barn. This monthly letter was the only pleasure and stimulant4 in her life. Existence would have been, so Sidney thought, a dreary5, unbearable6 blank without it. She cast aside her milking-dress with a thrill of distaste that tingled7 to her rosy8 fingertips. As she slipped into her blue-print afternoon dress her aunt called to her from below. Sidney ran out to the dark little entry and leaned over the stair railing. Below in the kitchen there was a hubbub9 of laughing, crying, quarrelling children, and a reek10 of bad tobacco smoke drifted up to the girl's disgusted nostrils11.
Aunt Jane was standing12 at the foot of the stairs with a lamp in one hand and a year-old baby clinging to the other. She was a big shapeless woman with a round good-natured face—cheerful and vulgar as a sunflower was Aunt Jane at all times and occasions.
"I want to run over and see how Mrs. Brixby is this evening, Siddy, and you must take care of the baby till I get back."
Sidney sighed and went downstairs for the baby. It never would have occurred to her to protest or be petulant13 about it. She had all her aunt's sweetness of disposition14, if she resembled her in nothing else. She had not grumbled15 because she had to rise at four that morning, get breakfast, milk the cows, bake bread, prepare seven children for school, get dinner, preserve twenty quarts of strawberries, get tea, and milk the cows again. All her days were alike as far as hard work and dullness went, but she accepted them cheerfully and uncomplainingly. But she did resent having to look after the baby when she wanted to write her letter.
She carried the baby to her room, spread a quilt on the floor for him to sit on, and gave him a box of empty spools18 to play with. Fortunately he was a phlegmatic19 infant, fond of staying in one place, and not given to roaming about in search of adventures; but Sidney knew she would have to keep an eye on him, and it would be distracting to literary effort.
She got out her box of paper and sat down by the little table at the window with a small kerosene20 lamp at her elbow. The room was small—a mere21 box above the kitchen which Sidney shared with two small cousins. Her bed and the cot where the little girls slept filled up almost all the available space. The furniture was poor, but everything was neat—it was the only neat room in the house, indeed, for tidiness was no besetting22 virtue23 of Aunt Jane's.
Opposite Sidney was a small muslined and befrilled toilet-table, above which hung an eight-by-six-inch mirror, in which Sidney saw herself reflected as she devoutly24 hoped other people did not see her. Just at that particular angle one eye appeared to be as large as an orange, while the other was the size of a pea, and the mouth zigzagged25 from ear to ear. Sidney hated that mirror as virulently26 as she could hate anything. It seemed to her to typify all that was unlovely in her life. The mirror of existence into which her fresh young soul had looked for twenty years gave back to her wistful gaze just such distortions of fair hopes and ideals.
Half of the little table by which she sat was piled high with books—old books, evidently well read and well-bred books, classics of fiction and verse every one of them, and all bearing on the flyleaf the name of Sidney Richmond, thereby27 meaning not the girl at the table, but her college-bred young father who had died the day before she was born. Her mother had died the day after, and Sidney thereupon had come into the hands of good Aunt Jane, with those books for her dowry, since nothing else was left after the expenses of the double funeral had been paid.
One of the books had Sidney Richmond's name printed on the title-page instead of written on the flyleaf. It was a thick little volume of poems, published in his college days—musical, unsubstantial, pretty little poems, every one of which the girl Sidney loved and knew by heart.
Sidney dropped her pointed28 chin in her hands and looked dreamily out into the moonlit night, while she thought her letter out a little more fully16 before beginning to write. Her big brown eyes were full of wistfulness and romance; for Sidney was romantic, albeit29 a faithful and understanding acquaintance with her father's books had given to her romance refinement30 and reason, and the delicacy31 of her own nature had imparted to it a self-respecting bias32.
Presently she began to write, with a flush of real excitement on her face. In the middle of things the baby choked on a small twist spool17 and Sidney had to catch him up by the heels and hold him head downward until the trouble was ejected. Then she had to soothe33 him, and finally write the rest of her letter holding him on one arm and protecting the epistle from the grabs of his sticky little fingers. It was certainly letter-writing under difficulties, but Sidney seemed to deal with them mechanically. Her soul and understanding were elsewhere.
Four years before, when Sidney was sixteen, still calling herself a schoolgirl by reason of the fact that she could be spared to attend school four months in the winter when work was slack, she had been much interested in the "Maple34 Leaf" department of the Montreal weekly her uncle took. It was a page given over to youthful Canadians and filled with their contributions in the way of letters, verses, and prize essays. Noms de plume35 were signed to these, badges were sent to those who joined the Maple Leaf Club, and a general delightful36 sense of mystery pervaded37 the department.
Often a letter concluded with a request to the club members to correspond with the writer. One such request went from Sidney under the pen-name of "Ellen Douglas." The girl was lonely in Plainfield; she had no companions or associates such as she cared for; the Maple Leaf Club represented all that her life held of outward interest, and she longed for something more.
Only one answer came to "Ellen Douglas," and that was forwarded to her by the long-suffering editor of "The Maple Leaf." It was from John Lincoln of the Bar N Ranch38, Alberta. He wrote that, although his age debarred him from membership in the club (he was twenty, and the limit was eighteen), he read the letters of the department with much interest, and often had thought of answering some of the requests for correspondents. He never had done so, but "Ellen Douglas's" letter was so interesting that he had decided39 to write to her. Would she be kind enough to correspond with him? Life on the Bar N, ten miles from the outposts of civilization, was lonely. He was two years out from the east, and had not yet forgotten to be homesick at times.
Sidney liked the letter and answered it. Since then they had written to each other regularly. There was nothing sentimental40, hinted at or implied, in the correspondence. Whatever the faults of Sidney's romantic visions were, they did not tend to precocious41 flirtation42. The Plainfield boys, attracted by her beauty and repelled43 by her indifference44 and aloofness45, could have told that. She never expected to meet John Lincoln, nor did she wish to do so. In the correspondence itself she found her pleasure.
John Lincoln wrote breezy accounts of ranch life and adventures on the far western plains, so alien and remote from snug46, humdrum47 Plainfield life that Sidney always had the sensation of crossing a gulf48 when she opened a letter from the Bar N. As for Sidney's own letter, this is the way it read as she wrote it:
"The Evergreens49," Plainfield.
Dear Mr. Lincoln:
The very best letter I can write in the half-hour before the carriage will be at the door to take me to Mrs. Braddon's dance shall be yours tonight. I am sitting here in the library arrayed in my smartest, newest, whitest, silkiest gown, with a string of pearls which Uncle James gave me today about my throat—the dear, glistening50, sheeny things! And I am looking forward to the "dances and delight" of the evening with keen anticipation51.
You asked me in your last letter if I did not sometimes grow weary of my endless round of dances and dinners and social functions. No, no, never! I enjoy every one of them, every minute of them. I love life and its bloom and brilliancy; I love meeting new people; I love the ripple52 of music, the hum of laughter and conversation. Every morning when I awaken53 the new day seems to me to be a good fairy who will bring me some beautiful gift of joy.
The gift she gave me today was my sunset gallop54 on my grey mare55 Lady. The thrill of it is in my veins56 yet. I distanced the others who rode with me and led the homeward canter alone, rocking along a dark, gleaming road, shadowy with tall firs and pines, whose balsam made all the air resinous57 around me. Before me was a long valley filled with purple dusk, and beyond it meadows of sunset and great lakes of saffron and rose where a soul might lose itself in colour. On my right was the harbour, silvered over with a rising moon. Oh, it was all glorious—the clear air with its salt-sea tang, the aroma58 of the pines, the laughter of my friends behind me, the spring and rhythm of Lady's grey satin body beneath me! I wanted to ride on so forever, straight into the heart of the sunset.
Then home and to dinner. We have a houseful of guests at present—one of them an old statesman with a massive silver head, and eyes that have looked into people's thoughts so long that you have an uncanny feeling that they can see right through your soul and read motives59 you dare not avow60 even to yourself. I was terribly in awe61 of him at first, but when I got acquainted with him I found him charming. He is not above talking delightful nonsense even to a girl. I sat by him at dinner, and he talked to me—not nonsense, either, this time. He told me of his political contests and diplomatic battles; he was wise and witty62 and whimsical. I felt as if I were drinking some rare, stimulating63 mental wine. What a privilege it is to meet such men and take a peep through their wise eyes at the fascinating game of empire-building!
I met another clever man a few evenings ago. A lot of us went for a sail on the harbour. Mrs. Braddon's house party came too. We had three big white boats that skimmed down the moonlit channel like great white sea birds. There was another boat far across the harbour, and the people in it were singing. The music drifted over the water to us, so sad and sweet and beguiling64 that I could have cried for very pleasure. One of Mrs. Braddon's guests said to me:
"That is the soul of music with all its sense and earthliness refined away."
I hadn't thought about him before—I hadn't even caught his name in the general introduction. He was a tall, slight man, with a worn, sensitive face and iron-grey hair—a quiet man who hadn't laughed or talked. But he began to talk to me then, and I forgot all about the others. I never had listened to anybody in the least like him. He talked of books and music, of art and travel. He had been all over the world, and had seen everything everybody else had seen and everything they hadn't too, I think. I seemed to be looking into an enchanted65 mirror where all my own dreams and ideals were reflected back to me, but made, oh, so much more beautiful!
On my way home after the Braddon people had left us somebody asked me how I liked Paul Moore! The man I had been talking with was Paul Moore, the great novelist! I was almost glad I hadn't known it while he was talking to me—I should have been too awed66 and reverential to have really enjoyed his conversation. As it was, I had contradicted him twice, and he had laughed and liked it. But his books will always have a new meaning to me henceforth, through the insight he himself has given me.
It is such meetings as these that give life its sparkle for me. But much of its abiding67 sweetness comes from my friendship with Margaret Raleigh. You will be weary of my rhapsodies over her. But she is such a rare and wonderful woman; much older then I am, but so young in heart and soul and freshness of feeling! She is to me mother and sister and wise, clear-sighted friend. To her I go with all my perplexities and hopes and triumphs. She has sympathy and understanding for my every mood. I love life so much for giving me such a friendship!
This morning I wakened at dawn and stole away to the shore before anyone else was up. I had a delightful run-away. The long, low-lying meadows between "The Evergreens" and the shore were dewy and fresh in that first light, that was as fine and purely68 tinted69 as the heart of one of my white roses. On the beach the water was purring in little blue ripples70, and, oh, the sunrise out there beyond the harbour! All the eastern Heaven was abloom with it. And there was a wind that came dancing and whistling up the channel to replace the beautiful silence with a music more beautiful still.
The rest of the folks were just coming downstairs when I got back to breakfast. They were all yawny, and some were grumpy, but I had washed my being in the sunrise and felt as blithesome71 as the day. Oh, life is so good to live!
Tomorrow Uncle James's new vessel73, the White Lady, is to be launched. We are going to make a festive74 occasion of it, and I am to christen her with a bottle of cobwebby old wine.
But I hear the carriage, and Aunt Jane is calling me. I had a great deal more to say—about your letter, your big "round-up" and your tribulations75 with your Chinese cook—but I've only time now to say goodbye. You wish me a lovely time at the dance and a full programme, don't you?
Yours sincerely,
Sidney Richmond.
Aunt Jane came home presently and carried away her sleeping baby. Sidney said her prayers, went to bed, and slept soundly and serenely76.
She mailed her letter the next day, and a month later an answer came. Sidney read it as soon as she left the post office, and walked the rest of the way home as in a nightmare, staring straight ahead of her with wide-open, unseeing brown eyes.
John Lincoln's letter was short, but the pertinent77 paragraph of it burned itself into Sidney's brain. He wrote:
I am going east for a visit. It is six years since I was home, and it seems like three times six. I shall go by the C.P.R., which passes through Plainfield, and I mean to stop off for a day. You will let me call and see you, won't you? I shall have to take your permission for granted, as I shall be gone before a letter from you can reach the Bar N. I leave for the east in five days, and shall look forward to our meeting with all possible interest and pleasure.
Sidney did not sleep that night, but tossed restlessly about or cried in her pillow. She was so pallid78 and hollow-eyed the next morning that Aunt Jane noticed it, and asked her what the matter was.
"Nothing," said Sidney sharply. Sidney had never spoken sharply to her aunt before. The good woman shook her head. She was afraid the child was "taking something."
"Don't do much today, Siddy," she said kindly79. "Just lie around and take it easy till you get rested up. I'll fix you a dose of quinine."
Sidney refused to lie around and take it easy. She swallowed the quinine meekly80 enough, but she worked fiercely all day, hunting out superfluous81 tasks to do. That night she slept the sleep of exhaustion82, but her dreams were unenviable and the awakening83 was terrible.
Any day, any hour, might bring John Lincoln to Plainfield. What should she do? Hide from him? Refuse to see him? But he would find out the truth just the same; she would lose his friendships and respect just as surely. Sidney trod the way of the transgressor84, and found that its thorns pierced to bone and marrow85. Everything had come to an end—nothing was left to her! In the untried recklessness of twenty untempered years she wished she could die before John Lincoln came to Plainfield. The eyes of youth could not see how she could possibly live afterward.
Some days later a young man stepped from the C.P.R. train at Plainfield station and found his way to the one small hotel the place boasted. After getting his supper he asked the proprietor86 if he could direct him to "The Evergreens."
Caleb Williams looked at his guest in bewilderment. "Never heerd o' such a place," he said.
"It is the name of Mr. Conway's estate—Mr. James Conway," explained John Lincoln.
"Oh, Jim Conway's place!" said Caleb. "Didn't know that was what he called it. Sartin I kin1 tell you whar' to find it. You see that road out thar'? Well, just follow it straight along for a mile and a half till you come to a blacksmith's forge. Jim Conway's house is just this side of it on the right—back from the road a smart piece and no other handy. You can't mistake it."
John Lincoln did not expect to mistake it, once he found it; he knew by heart what it appeared like from Sidney's description: an old stately mansion87 of mellowed88 brick, covered with ivy89 and set back from the highway amid fine ancestral trees, with a pine-grove behind it, a river to the left, and a harbour beyond.
He strode along the road in the warm, ruddy sunshine of early evening. It was not a bad-looking road at all; the farmsteads sprinkled along it were for the most part snug and wholesome90 enough; yet somehow it was different from what he had expected it to be. And there was no harbour or glimpse of distant sea visible. Had the hotel-keeper made a mistake? Perhaps he had meant some other James Conway.
Presently he found himself before the blacksmith's forge. Beside it was a rickety, unpainted gate opening into a snake-fenced lane feathered here and there with scrubby little spruces. It ran down a bare hill, crossed a little ravine full of young white-stemmed birches, and up another bare hill to an equally bare crest91 where a farmhouse92 was perched—a farmhouse painted a stark93, staring yellow and the ugliest thing in farmhouses94 that John Lincoln had ever seen, even among the log shacks95 of the west. He knew now that he had been misdirected, but as there seemed to be nobody about the forge he concluded that he had better go to the yellow house and inquire within. He passed down the lane and over the little rustic96 bridge that spanned the brook97. Just beyond was another home-made gate of poles.
Lincoln opened it, or rather he had his hand on the hasp of twisted withes which secured it, when he was suddenly arrested by the apparition98 of a girl, who flashed around the curve of young birch beyond and stood before him with panting breath and quivering lips.
"I beg your pardon," said John Lincoln courteously99, dropping the gate and lifting his hat. "I am looking for the house of Mr. James Conway—'The Evergreens.' Can you direct me to it?"
"That is Mr. James Conway's house," said the girl, with the tragic100 air and tone of one driven to desperation and an impatient gesture of her hand toward the yellow nightmare above them.
"I don't think he can be the one I mean," said Lincoln perplexedly. "The man I am thinking of has a niece, Miss Richmond."
"There is no other James Conway in Plainfield," said the girl. "This is his place—nobody calls it 'The Evergreens' but myself. I am Sidney Richmond."
For a moment they looked at each other across the gate, sheer amazement101 and bewilderment holding John Lincoln mute. Sidney, burning with shame, saw that this stranger was exceedingly good to look upon—tall, clean-limbed, broad-shouldered, with clear-cut bronzed features and a chin and eyes that would have done honour to any man. John Lincoln, among all his confused sensations, was aware that this slim, agitated102 young creature before him was the loveliest thing he ever had seen, so lithe72 was her figure, so glossy103 and dark and silken her bare, wind-ruffled hair, so big and brown and appealing her eyes, so delicately oval her flushed cheeks. He felt that she was frightened and in trouble, and he wanted to comfort and reassure104 her. But how could she be Sidney Richmond?
"I don't understand," he said perplexedly.
"Oh!" Sidney threw out her hands in a burst of passionate105 protest. "No, and you never will understand—I can't make you understand."
"I don't understand," said John Lincoln again. "Can you be Sidney Richmond—the Sidney Richmond who has written to me for four years?"
"I am."
"Then, those letters—"
"Were all lies," said Sidney bluntly and desperately106. "There was nothing true in them—nothing at all. This is my home. We are poor. Everything I told you about it and my life was just imagination."
"Then why did you write them?" he asked blankly. "Why did you deceive me?"
"Oh, I didn't mean to deceive you! I never thought of such a thing. When you asked me to write to you I wanted to, but I didn't know what to write about to a stranger. I just couldn't write you about my life here, not because it was hard, but it was so ugly and empty. So I wrote instead of the life I wanted to live—the life I did live in imagination. And when once I had begun, I had to keep it up. I found it so fascinating, too! Those letters made that other life seem real to me. I never expected to meet you. These last four days since your letter came have been dreadful to me. Oh, please go away and forgive me if you can! I know I can never make you understand how it came about."
Sidney turned away and hid her burning face against the cool white bark of the birch tree behind her. It was worse than she had even thought it would be. He was so handsome, so manly107, so earnest-eyed! Oh, what a friend to lose!
John Lincoln opened the gate and went up to her. There was a great tenderness in his face, mingled108 with a little kindly, friendly amusement.
"Please don't distress109 yourself so, Sidney," he said, unconsciously using her Christian110 name. "I think I do understand. I'm not such a dull fellow as you take me for. After all, those letters were true—or, rather, there was truth in them. You revealed yourself more faithfully in them than if you had written truly about your narrow outward life."
Sidney turned her flushed face and wet eyes slowly toward him, a little smile struggling out amid the clouds of woe111. This young man was certainly good at understanding. "You—you'll forgive me then?" she stammered112.
"Yes, if there is anything to forgive. And for my own part, I am glad you are not what I have always thought you were. If I had come here and found you what I expected, living in such a home as I expected, I never could have told you or even thought of telling you what you have come to mean to me in these lonely years during which your letters have been the things most eagerly looked forward to. I should have come this evening and spent an hour or so with you, and then have gone away on the train tomorrow morning, and that would have been all.
"But I find instead just a dreamy romantic little girl, much like my sisters at home, except that she is a great deal cleverer. And as a result I mean to stay a week at Plainfield and come to see you every day, if you will let me. And on my way back to the Bar N I mean to stop off at Plainfield again for another week, and then I shall tell you something more—something it would be a little too bold to say now, perhaps, although I could say it just as well and truly. All this if I may. May I, Sidney?"
He bent113 forward and looked earnestly into her face. Sidney felt a new, curious, inexplicable114 thrill at her heart. "Oh, yes.—I suppose so," she said shyly.
"Now, take me up to the house and introduce me to your Aunt Jane," said John Lincoln in satisfied tone.
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kin
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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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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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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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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petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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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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spool
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| n.（缠录音带等的）卷盘（轴）；v.把…绕在卷轴上 | |
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spools
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| n.（绕线、铁线、照相软片等的）管( spool的名词复数 )；络纱；纺纱机；绕圈轴工人v.把…绕到线轴上（或从线轴上绕下来）( spool的第三人称单数 )；假脱机（输出或输入） | |
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phlegmatic
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| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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kerosene
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| n.(kerosine)煤油，火油 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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besetting
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| adj.不断攻击的v.困扰( beset的现在分词 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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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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devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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zigzagged
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| adj.呈之字形移动的v.弯弯曲曲地走路，曲折地前进( zigzag的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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virulently
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| 恶毒地，狠毒地 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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39
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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40
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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41
precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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42
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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43
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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44
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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45
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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46
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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47
humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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48
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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49
evergreens
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| n.常青树，常绿植物，万年青( evergreen的名词复数 ) | |
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50
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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51
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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52
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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53
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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54
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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55
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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56
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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57
resinous
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| adj.树脂的，树脂质的，树脂制的 | |
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58
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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59
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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60
avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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61
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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62
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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63
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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beguiling
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| adj.欺骗的，诱人的v.欺骗( beguile的现在分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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65
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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66
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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68
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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69
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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70
ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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71
blithesome
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| adj.欢乐的，愉快的 | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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73
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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75
tribulations
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| n.苦难( tribulation的名词复数 )；艰难；苦难的缘由；痛苦 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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pertinent
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| adj.恰当的；贴切的；中肯的；有关的；相干的 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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79
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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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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81
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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82
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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83
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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84
transgressor
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| n.违背者 | |
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85
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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86
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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87
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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88
mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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89
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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90
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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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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92
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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93
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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94
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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95
shacks
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| n.窝棚，简陋的小屋( shack的名词复数 ) | |
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96
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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97
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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98
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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99
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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100
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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101
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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102
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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103
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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104
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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105
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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106
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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107
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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108
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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109
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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110
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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111
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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112
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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114
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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