Fate, in the guise1 of Mrs. Emory dropping a milk-can on the platform under his open window, awakened2 Murray that morning. Had not Mrs. Emory dropped that can, he would have slumbered3 peacefully until his usual hour for rising—a late one, be it admitted, for of all the boarders at Sweetbriar Cottage Murray was the most irregular in his habits.
"When a young man," Mrs. Emory was wont4 to remark sagely5 and a trifle severely6, "prowls about that pond half of the night, a-chasing of things what he calls 'moonlight effecks,' it ain't to be wondered at that he's sleepy in the morning. And it ain't the convenientest thing, nuther and noways, to keep the breakfast table set till the farm folks are thinking of dinner. But them artist men are not like other people, say what you will, and allowance has to be made for them. And I must say that I likes him real well and approves of him every other way."
If Murray had slept late that morning—well, he shudders7 yet over that "if." But aforesaid Fate saw to it that he woke when the hour of destiny and the milk-can struck, and having awakened he found he could not go to sleep again. It suddenly occurred to him that he had never seen a sunrise on the pond. Doubtless it would be very lovely down there in those dewy meadows at such a primitive9 hour; he decided10 to get up and see what the world looked like in the young daylight.
He scowled11 at a letter lying on his dressing12 table and thrust it into his pocket that it might be out of sight. He had written it the night before and the writing of it was going to cost him several things—a prospective13 million among others. So it is hardly to be wondered at if the sight of it did not reconcile him to the joys of early rising.
"Dear life and heart!" exclaimed Mrs. Emory, pausing in the act of scalding a milk-can when Murray emerged from a side door. "What on earth is the matter, Mr. Murray? You ain't sick now, surely? I told you them pond fogs was p'isen after night! If you've gone and got—"
"Nothing is the matter, dear lady," interrupted Murray, "and I haven't gone and got anything except an acute attack of early rising which is not in the least likely to become chronic14. But at what hour of the night do you get up, you wonderful woman? Or rather do you ever go to bed at all? Here is the sun only beginning to rise and—positively yes, you have all your cows milked."
Mrs. Emory purred with delight.
"Folks as has fourteen cows to milk has to rise betimes," she answered with proud humility15. "Laws, I don't complain—I've lots of help with the milking. How Mrs. Palmer manages, I really cannot comperhend—or rather, how she has managed. I suppose she'll be all right now since her niece came last night. I saw her posting to the pond pasture not ten minutes ago. She'll have to milk all them seven cows herself. But dear life and heart! Here I be palavering away and not a bite of breakfast ready for you!"
"I don't want any breakfast until the regular time for it," assured Murray. "I'm going down to the pond to see the sun rise."
"Now don't you go and get caught in the ma'sh," anxiously called Mrs. Emory, as she never failed to do when she saw him starting for the pond. Nobody ever had got caught in the marsh16, but Mrs. Emory lived in a chronic state of fear lest someone should.
"And if you once got stuck in that black mud you'd be sucked right down and never seen or heard tell of again till the day of judgment17, like Adam Palmer's cow," she was wont to warn her boarders.
Murray sought his favourite spot for pond dreaming—a bloomy corner of the pasture that ran down into the blue water, with a dump of leafy maples18 on the left. He was very glad he had risen early. A miracle was being worked before his very eyes. The world was in a flush and tremor20 of maiden21 loveliness, instinct with all the marvellous fleeting22 charm of girlhood and spring and young morning. Overhead the sky was a vast high-sprung arch of unstained crystal. Down over the sand dunes23, where the pond ran out into the sea, was a great arc of primrose24 smitten25 through with auroral26 crimsonings. Beneath it the pond waters shimmered28 with a hundred fairy hues29, but just before him they were clear as a flawless mirror. The fields around him glistened30 with dews, and a little wandering wind, blowing lightly from some bourne in the hills, strayed down over the slopes, bringing with it an unimaginable odour and freshness, and fluttered over the pond, leaving a little path of dancing silver ripples31 across the mirror-glory of the water. Birds were singing in the beech32 woods over on Orchard33 Knob Farm, answering to each other from shore to shore, until the very air was tremulous with the elfin music of this wonderful midsummer dawn.
"I will get up at sunrise every morning of my life hereafter," exclaimed Murray rapturously, not meaning a syllable34 of it, but devoutly35 believing he did.
Just as the fiery36 disc of the sun peered over the sand dunes Murray heard music that was not of the birds. It was a girl's voice singing beyond the maples to his left—a clear sweet voice, blithely37 trilling out the old-fashioned song, "Five O'Clock in the Morning."
"Mrs. Palmer's niece!"
Murray sprang to his feet and tiptoed cautiously through the maples. He had heard so much from Mrs. Palmer about her niece that he felt reasonably well acquainted with her. Moreover, Mrs. Palmer had assured him that Mollie was a very pretty girl. Now a pretty girl milking cows at sunrise in the meadows sounded well.
Mrs. Palmer had not over-rated her niece's beauty. Murray said so to himself with a little whistle of amazement38 as he leaned unseen on the pasture fence and looked at the girl who was milking a placid39 Jersey40 less than ten yards away from him. Murray's artistic41 instinct responded to the whole scene with a thrill of satisfaction.
He could see only her profile, but that was perfect, and the colouring of the oval cheek and the beautiful curve of the chin were something to adore. Her hair, ruffled42 into lovable little ringlets by the morning wind, was coiled in glistening43 chestnut44 masses high on her bare head, and her arms, bare to the elbow, were as white as marble. Presently she began to sing again, and this time Murray joined in. She half rose from her milking stool and cast a startled glance at the maples. Then she dropped back again and began to milk determinedly46, but Murray could have sworn that he saw a demure47 smile hovering48 about her lips. That, and the revelation of her full face, decided him. He sprang over the fence and sauntered across the intervening space of lush clover blossoms.
"Good morning," he said coolly. He had forgotten her other name, and it did not matter; at five o'clock in the morning people who met in dewy clover fields might disregard the conventionalities. "Isn't it rather a large contract for you to be milking seven cows all alone? May I help you?"
Mollie looked up at him over her shoulder. She had glorious grey eyes. Her face was serene49 and undisturbed. "Can you milk?" she asked.
"Unlikely as it may seem, I can," said Murray. "I have never confessed it to Mrs. Emory, because I was afraid she would inveigle50 me into milking her fourteen cows. But I don't mind helping51 you. I learned to milk when I was a shaver on my vacations at a grandfatherly farm. May I have that extra pail?"
Murray captured a milking stool and rounded up another Jersey. Before sitting down he seemed struck with an idea.
"My name is Arnold Murray. I board at Sweetbriar Cottage, next farm to Orchard Knob. That makes us near neighbours."
"I suppose it does," said Mollie.
Murray mentally decided that her voice was the sweetest he had ever heard. He was glad he had arranged his cow at such an angle that he could study her profile. It was amazing that Mrs. Palmer's niece should have such a profile. It looked as if centuries of fine breeding were responsible for it.
"What a morning!" he said enthusiastically. "It harks back to the days when earth was young. They must have had just such mornings as this in Eden."
"Do you always get up so early?" asked Mollie practically.
"Always," said Murray without a blush. Then—"But no, that is a fib, and I cannot tell fibs to you. The truth is your tribute. I never get up early. It was fate that roused me and brought me here this morning. The morning is a miracle—and you, I might suppose you were born of the sunrise, if Mrs. Palmer hadn't told me all about you."
"What did she tell you about me?" asked Mollie, changing cows. Murray discovered that she was tall and that the big blue print apron52 shrouded53 a singularly graceful54 figure.
"She said you were the best-looking girl in Bruce county. I have seen very few of the girls in Bruce county, but I know she is right."
"That compliment is not nearly so pretty as the sunrise one," said Mollie reflectively. "Mrs. Palmer has told me things about you," she added.
"Curiosity knows no gender," hinted Murray.
"She said you were good-looking and lazy and different from other people."
"All compliments," said Murray in a gratified tone.
"Lazy?"
"Certainly. Laziness is a virtue55 in these strenuous56 days, I was not born with it, but I have painstakingly57 acquired it, and I am proud of my success. I have time to enjoy life."
"I think that I like you," said Mollie.
"You have the merit of being able to enter into a situation," he assured her.
When the last Jersey was milked they carried the pails down to the spring where the creamers were sunk and strained the milk into them. Murray washed the pails and Mollie wiped them and set them in a gleaming row on the shelf under a big maple19.
"Thank you," she said.
"You are not going yet," said Murray resolutely58. "The time I saved you in milking three cows belongs to me. We will spend it in a walk along the pond shore. I will show you a path I have discovered under the beeches59. It is just wide enough for two. Come."
He took her hand and drew her through the copse into a green lane, where the ferns grew thickly on either side and the pond waters plashed dreamily below them. He kept her hand in his as they went down the path, and she did not try to withdraw it. About them was the great, pure silence of the morning, faintly threaded with caressing60 sounds—croon of birds, gurgle of waters, sough of wind. The spirit of youth and love hovered61 over them and they spoke62 no word.
When they finally came out on a little green nook swimming in early sunshine and arched over by maples, with the wide shimmer27 of the pond before it and the gold dust of blossoms over the grass, the girl drew a long breath of delight.
"It is a morning left over from Eden, isn't it?" said Murray.
"Yes," said Mollie softly.
Murray bent63 toward her. "You are Eve," he said. "You are the only woman in the world—for me. Adam must have told Eve just what he thought about her the first time he saw her. There were no conventionalities in Eden—and people could not have taken long to make up their minds. We are in Eden just now. One can say what he thinks in Eden without being ridiculous. You are divinely fair, Eve. Your eyes are stars of the morning—your cheek has the flush it stole from the sunrise-your lips are redder than the roses of paradise. And I love you, Eve."
Mollie lowered her eyes and the long fringe of her lashes64 lay in a burnished65 semi-circle on her cheek.
"I think," she said slowly, "that it must have been very delightful66 in Eden. But we are not really there, you know—we are only playing that we are. And it is time for me to go back. I must get the breakfast—that sounds too prosaic67 for paradise."
Murray bent still closer.
"Before we remember that we are only playing at paradise, will you kiss me, dear Eve?"
"You are very audacious," said Mollie coldly.
"We are in Eden yet," he urged. "That makes all the difference."
"Well," said Mollie. And Murray kissed her.
They had passed back over the fern path and were in the pasture before either spoke again. Then Murray said, "We have left Eden behind—but we can always return there when we will. And although we were only playing at paradise, I was not playing at love. I meant all I said, Mollie."
"Have you meant it often?" asked Mollie significantly.
"I never meant it—or even played at it—before," he answered. "I did—at one time—contemplate the possibility of playing at it. But that was long ago—as long ago as last night. I am glad to the core of my soul that I decided against it before I met you, dear Eve. I have the letter of decision in my coat pocket this moment. I mean to mail it this afternoon."
"'Curiosity knows no gender,'" quoted Mollie.
"Then, to satisfy your curiosity, I must bore you with some personal history. My parents died when I was a little chap, and my uncle brought me up. He has been immensely good to me, but he is a bit of a tyrant68. Recently he picked out a wife for me—the daughter of an old sweetheart of his. I have never even seen her. But she has arrived in town on a visit to some relatives there. Uncle Dick wrote to me to return home at once and pay my court to the lady; I protested. He wrote again—a letter, short and the reverse of sweet. If I refused to do my best to win Miss Mannering he would disown me—never speak to me again—cut me off with a quarter. Uncle always means what he says—that is one of our family traits, you understand. I spent some miserable69, undecided days. It was not the threat of disinheritance that worried me, although when you have been brought up to regard yourself as a prospective millionaire it is rather difficult to adjust your vision to a pauper70 focus. But it was the thought of alienating71 Uncle Dick. I love the dear, determined45 old chap like a father. But last night my guardian72 angel was with me and I decided to remain my own man. So I wrote to Uncle Dick, respectfully but firmly declining to become a candidate for Miss Mannering's hand."
"But you have never seen her," said Mollie. "She may be—almost—charming."
"'If she be not fair to me, what care I how fair she be?'" quoted Murray. "As you say, she may be—almost charming; but she is not Eve. She is merely one of a million other women, as far as I am concerned. Don't let's talk of her. Let us talk only of ourselves—there is nothing else that is half so interesting."
"And will your uncle really cast you off?" asked Mollie.
"Not a doubt of it."
"What will you do?"
"Work, dear Eve. My carefully acquired laziness must be thrown to the winds and I shall work. That is the rule outside of Eden. Don't worry. I've painted pictures that have actually been sold. I'll make a living for us somehow."
"Us?"
"Of course. You are engaged to me."
"I am not," said Mollie indignantly.
"Mollie! Mollie! After that kiss! Fie, fie!"
"You are very absurd," said Mollie, "But your absurdity73 has been amusing. I have—yes, positively—I have enjoyed your Eden comedy. But now you must not come any further with me. My aunt might not approve. Here is my path to Orchard Knob farmhouse74. There, I presume, is yours to Sweetbriar Cottage. Good morning."
"I am coming over to see you this afternoon," said Murray coolly. "But you needn't be afraid. I will not tell tales out of Eden. I will be a hypocrite and pretend to Mrs. Palmer that we have never met before. But you and I will know and remember. Now, you may go. I reserve to myself the privilege of standing75 here and watching you out of sight."
That afternoon Murray strolled over to Orchard Knob, going into the kitchen without knocking as was the habit in that free and easy world. Mrs. Palmer was lying on the lounge with a pungent76 handkerchief bound about her head, but keeping a vigilant77 eye on a very pretty, very plump brown-eyed girl who was stirring a kettleful of cherry preserve on the range.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Palmer," said Murray, wondering where Mollie was. "I'm sorry to see that you look something like an invalid78."
"I've a raging, ramping79 headache," said Mrs. Palmer solemnly. "I had it all night and I'm good for nothing. Mollie, you'd better take them cherries off. Mr. Murray, this is my niece, Mollie Booth."
"What?" said Murray explosively.
"Miss Mollie Booth," repeated Mrs. Palmer in a louder tone.
"And what about Eve?" he thought helplessly. "Who—what was she? Did I dream her? Was she a phantom81 of delight? No, no, phantoms82 don't milk cows. She was flesh and blood. No chilly83 nymph exhaling84 from the mists of the marsh could have given a kiss like that."
"Mollie has come to stay the rest of the summer with me," said Mrs. Palmer. "I hope to goodness my tribulations85 with hired girls is over at last. They have made a wreck86 of me."
Murray rapidly reflected. This development, he decided, released him from his promise to tell no tales. "I met a young lady down in the pond pasture this morning," he said deliberately87. "I talked with her for a few minutes. I supposed her to be your niece. Who was she?"
"Oh, that was Miss Mannering," said Mrs. Palmer.
"What?" said Murray again.
"Mannering—Dora Mannering," said Mrs. Palmer loudly, wondering if Mr. Murray were losing his hearing. "She came here last night just to see me. I haven't seen her since she was a child of twelve. I used to be her nurse before I was married. I was that proud to think she thought it worth her while to look me up. And, mind you, this morning, when she found me crippled with headache and not able to do a hand's turn, that girl, Mr. Murray, went and milked seven cows"—"only four," murmured Murray, but Mrs. Palmer did not hear him—"for me. Couldn't prevent her. She said she had learned to milk for fun one summer when she was in the country, and she did it. And then she got breakfast for the men—Mollie didn't come till the ten o'clock train. Miss Mannering is as capable as if she had been riz on a farm."
"Where is she now?" demanded Murray.
"Oh, she's gone."
"What?"
"Gone," shouted Mrs. Palmer, "gone. She left on the train Mollie come on. Gracious me, has the man gone crazy? He hasn't seemed like himself at all this afternoon."
Murray had bolted madly out of the house and was striding down the lane.
Blind fool—unspeakable idiot that he had been! To take her for Mrs. Palmer's niece—that peerless creature with the calm acceptance of any situation, which marked the woman of the world, with the fine appreciation88 and quickness of repartee89 that spoke of generations of culture—to imagine that she could be Mollie Booth! He had been blind, besottedly blind. And now he had lost her! She would never forgive him; she had gone without a word or sign.
As he reached the last curve of the lane where it looped about the apple trees, a plump figure came flying down the orchard slope.
"Mr. Murray, Mr. Murray," Mollie Booth called breathlessly. "Will you please come here just a minute?"
Murray crossed over to the paling rather grumpily. He did not want to talk with Mollie Booth just then. Confound it, what did the girl want? Why was she looking so mysterious?
Mollie produced a little square grey envelope from some feminine hiding place and handed it over the paling.
"She give me this at the station—Miss Mannering did," she gasped90, "and asked me to give it to you without letting Aunt Emily Jane see. I couldn't get a chanst when you was in, but as soon as you went I slipped out by the porch door and followed you. You went so fast I near died trying to head you off."
"You dear little soul," said Murray, suddenly radiant. "It is too bad you have had to put yourself so out of breath on my account. But I am immensely obliged to you. The next time your young man wants a trusty private messenger just refer him to me."
"Git away with you," giggled91 Mollie. "I must hurry back 'fore8 Aunt Emily Jane gits wind I'm gone. I hope there's good news in your girl's letter. My, but didn't you look flat when Aunt said she'd went!"
Murray beamed at her idiotically. When she had vanished among the trees he opened his letter.
"Dear Mr. Murray," it ran, "your unblushing audacity92 of the morning deserves some punishment. I hereby punish you by prompt departure from Orchard Knob. Yet I do not dislike audacity, at some times, in some places, in some people. It is only from a sense of duty that I punish it in this case. And it was really pleasant in Eden. If you do not mail that letter, and if you still persist in your very absurd interpretation93 of the meaning of Eve's kiss, we may meet again in town. Until then I remain,
"Very sincerely yours,
"Dora Lynne Mannering."
Murray kissed the grey letter and put it tenderly away in his pocket. Then he took his letter to his uncle and tore it into tiny fragments. Finally he looked at his watch.
"If I hurry, I can catch the afternoon train to town," he said.
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1
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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sagely
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| adv. 贤能地，贤明地 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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7
shudders
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| n.颤动，打颤，战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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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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scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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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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maples
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| 槭树，枫树( maple的名词复数 )； 槭木 | |
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maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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dunes
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| 沙丘( dune的名词复数 ) | |
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primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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auroral
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| adj.曙光的；玫瑰色的 | |
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shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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shimmered
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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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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syllable
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devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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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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blithely
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| adv.欢乐地，快活地，无挂虑地 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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determinedly
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| adv.决意地；坚决地，坚定地 | |
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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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inveigle
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| v.诱骗 | |
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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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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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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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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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painstakingly
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| adv. 费力地 苦心地 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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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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pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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alienating
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| v.使疏远( alienate的现在分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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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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pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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ramping
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| 土堤斜坡( ramp的现在分词 )； 斜道； 斜路； （装车或上下飞机的）活动梯 | |
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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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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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exhaling
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的现在分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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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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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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