The Gay Gordons, each after his own fashion, expressed his views of this new development of the wild streak4, producing all sorts of opinions from Mr. Gordon, who memorized the pretty verses and hummed them over at his work and to Jean, who, while confessing that the little rhyme had no literary value, declared herself exceedingly glad that Lizzie was about to do something.
Mrs. Jarvis was the most highly pleased, and to add further to her joy, sent a copy of the Dominion5 containing the poem to her niece in Cheemaun. The Olivers had not been on the best of terms with their aunt since Madeline had been superseded6 by an interloper, and Mrs. Jarvis was not above enjoying her niece's chagrin7.
Elizabeth heard of the effect of the poem from Estella. She wrote a rapturous letter, two pages of which were filled with congratulations, the other ten with a description of the perfectly8 horrid9, mean way the Olivers were acting10—except Horace—and the perfectly frightful11 time she was having with all her clamoring suitors. Horace was not excepted this time. She ended up by declaring she almost felt like marrying Horry just to spite Madeline—who still refused to notice her socially,—only he had been Beth's beau so long, she felt it would be cruel and wicked.
Elizabeth wrote renouncing12 all claim upon the youth, and signing over whatever rights she may have had to Estella. She sighed a little over Madeline's case, for they had been old school-mates, and Elizabeth felt keenly her position as usurper13. Nevertheless, she was happier now than she had been since she left The Dale as Mrs. Jarvis's companion. She believed that her pen had found for her a purpose in life. Under all Elizabeth's gay exterior14, unquenched by the idle life of fashion, there lay a strong desire to be of use in a large, grand way—the old Joan of Arc dream. When she had first entered the new world with Mrs. Jarvis, her dream had centered about Eppie, her forlorn little school-mate. The pathos15 of Eppie's old-fashioned figure and pale face had never ceased to touch Elizabeth's heart.
At first her conscience, trained by Mother MacAllister, had rebelled at the thought of accepting a luxurious16 home from the woman who had, through callous17 indifference18, allowed Eppie to be turned away from her poor little log-cabin home in the forest. But Elizabeth could never have explained to her aunt her reluctance19 to accept the brilliant prospects20 before her, so she had gone into the new life determined21 to use whatever influence she could gain with her new companion towards bringing back Eppie and her grandfather to Forest Glen. But the years had passed, and, so far, she had accomplished22 nothing. Old Sandy and Eppie had disappeared, and even should she find them Elizabeth had little hope of help from Mrs. Jarvis. She could be indolently and weakly generous in the face of a pressing need, presented directly to her, but her young companion had always found her callously23 indifferent to any tale of distress24 that called for an effort of any sort.
And so Elizabeth's ambition had gradually waned25, until she was in danger of developing into a mere26 woman of fashion. But now she had found a new avenue for her activities. She would produce a great song one day, something that would make the world better and that would command Charles Stuart's approbation, no matter how unwilling27 he was to give it. Accordingly she made a bolder flight into the realm of poesy, and sent this second venture to the Dominion. To her dismay it was promptly28 sent back without a remark. A third and fourth effort to gain an entrance to lesser29 publications, ending in failure, convinced her that once more she had made a mistake. The Pretender was right, she had not the divine fire. She tried prose next, but she could not weave a story had her life depended upon it, and as for those clever articles other women wrote, she did not even understand what they were about. No, she was a failure surely, she told herself. This little song was like her acting on the school stage in the old days at home. She had promised to be a star and had suddenly set in oblivion.
She gave up literature entirely30, and once more that old imperative31 question, of what use was she to be in the world, faced her. She might have found opportunities in plenty in St. Stephen's Church, but the only young ladies she knew in the congregation belonged to the select Guild32 of which Miss Kendall was a member, and since her encounter with that lady Elizabeth had wisely avoided her. Besides, she felt that John and Charles Stuart would surely disown her if she were caught connecting herself with that society.
But the opportunities for self-examination and consequent self-dissatisfaction grew fewer as the winter advanced. Luncheons33, receptions, bridge tournaments, and theater parties followed each other with such bewildering swiftness that Elizabeth seldom had time for serious thought. So busy was she that often a week flew past without an opportunity even to run over to No. 15, much to the satisfaction of Mrs. Jarvis, who was often jealous of its attractions.
There was a new reason, too, for Elizabeth's many engagements, other than her popularity. Ever since the evening early in the autumn when Mr. Huntley had recognized his little Queen Elizabeth of the Forest Glen woods, he had been paying her marked attentions. He was a wealthy man now, one of the city's most prominent lawyers, a large shareholder34 in one of the new and most promising35 railroads, and—as Mrs. Jarvis joyfully36 pointed37 out to Elizabeth at every opportunity—the best match to be met in their social circle.
At first his notice had flattered Elizabeth and pleased her. It was just what she had thought she wanted. There had been very little of such pleasant experiences in her life. She had been a spectator of many pretty romances, but had always stood on the outer edge of the enchanted38 land, longing39, yet fearing to enter. Looking back she had to confess that Horace Oliver had produced her only romance, and now Horace was gone. Some of the young men she met in the fashionable world attracted her at first, and finally bored her. Often some one of them, captivated by her star-like eyes and her vivacity40, would single her out for special favors, and be met with great cordiality. Then suddenly, to Mrs. Jarvis's disgust, Elizabeth would grow weary of him and take no pains to hide her feelings. The young men soon ceased to run the risk of being so treated. "Miss Gordon was eccentric," they said, "and besides had a sharp tongue." Elizabeth noticed wistfully that all possible suitors drifted away and wondered what was the matter with her.
But Mr. Huntley promised to be entirely constant, and his intentions grew more obvious every day.
He was almost a middle-aged41 man now, and not likely to have passing fancies. But here as elsewhere Elizabeth found herself behaving in an unexpected fashion. She told herself that Mrs. Jarvis was right, and that if Mr. Huntley asked her to marry him she would indeed be a fortunate young woman, and yet when he came to their apartments in Crescent Court she was always seized with a wild desire to run away to Jean and the boys.
Nevertheless she reveled in the idea of being loved, and as long ago she had striven to put her pretty teacher upon a pedestal for worshipping, just because a teacher was always a glorified42 being, so she sought to surround Mr. Huntley's rather pompous43 middle-aged figure with the rose mist of her girlish dreams. For Elizabeth wanted to be loved more than anything else in the wide world.
And so the winter sped away in days crammed44 with pleasure-seeking, and the light of Mother MacAllister's teaching had almost faded from Elizabeth's life. But just as it had grown too dim to be seen by mortal eye, there came softly stealing into her heart the first hint of that dawn which was soon to break over her spirit and melt the gathering45 clouds of uselessness and selfishness. Slowly and almost imperceptibly the day was advancing, just as it had risen that summer morning so long ago when her wondering child-eyes had seen it steal over The Dale. There was no light as yet. Forms of right and wrong remained dim and not yet to be distinguished from each other; nevertheless the first note of the approaching dawn-music was soon to be sounded. It was to be a very feeble note,—the cry of a bird with a broken pinion—but it was to usher46 in the day of Elizabeth's new life.
Spring had begun to send forth47 her heralds48 in the form of high March winds. It was a chilly49 afternoon, and Mrs. Jarvis, her attempts at youthfulness all laid aside, was sitting huddled50 between the grate fire and the steam radiator51 drinking her tea.
"Beth," she called sharply, "don't forget your engagement for this afternoon."
Mrs. Jarvis's tone told Elizabeth that the usual dispute regarding her goings and comings was at hand. Generally she managed to cajole her querulous companion into permitting her her own way, but prospects did not look very bright at present. She emerged slowly from the pretty blue bedroom looking very handsome in her rich furs and a gray-blue toque that matched her eyes.
"You mean that committee of Miss Kendall's? I'm afraid if I go I'll get tangled53 up in that awful Guild."
Since the day she had met Miss Kendall doing charitable work in Seaton Crescent, Elizabeth had managed by much scheming to avoid that young lady. But a few days previous a little note had come from her asking Miss Gordon to come to the committee rooms at the church to help arrange some private theatricals54 which the Young Woman's Guild purposed giving for an Easter entertainment. The proceeds were to go to the poor, and Miss Kendall felt sure Miss Gordon would be interested; besides, she had heard Miss Gordon had especial talent for the stage. As Miss Kendall knew nothing whatever about Miss Gordon, the latter had wondered where she got her information, until Mr. Huntley had enlightened her. He had dropped in the same evening with a dozen roses, and had intimated that he had helped Miss Kendall make out her list. Mrs. Jarvis had been overjoyed, and now the day had come and Elizabeth was in some dismay as to how she was to get out of the predicament.
"Miss Withrow, the president, sent me an invitation to come to a meeting in the church. Some missionary55 man is to give an address. Now, wouldn't you rather I'd go there than to those giddy theatricals? The Withrows are quite as important as the Kendalls."
"Don't be sarcastic56. It's very unladylike. I'm not so anxious for you to join the Guild, but I want you to go to Blanche's meeting. Mr. Huntley was telling me those girls are getting their heads full of romantic notions about slumming and all that nonsense. I know he doesn't like that type of woman, so you are as well out of it."
"What has he to do with my affairs?"
"Oh indeed! What has he to do with them?" Mrs. Jarvis imitated her voice and manner. "He acts just now as though he had everything to do with you." She suddenly grew serious. "Mr. Huntley is a very fastidious gentleman, Miss Elizabeth, and you'd better not let him know anything about your eccentric tricks. It might spoil your chances."
Elizabeth's face flushed. "My chances of what, for instance?" she inquired.
Mrs. Jarvis laughed good-naturedly.
"Don't be absurd. Whatever you are you're not dull. Why do you persist in ignoring what is patent to everybody? Do you mean to stand there, Elizabeth Gordon, and tell me you never imagined yourself Mrs. Huntley?"
"Oh, as to that: there's no limit to what one can imagine. I've imagined myself Joan of Arc, often—and Mrs. Horace Oliver, and Jake Martin's third—supposing he dared outlive Auntie Jinit—and a circus rider, and a pelican60 of the wilderness61, and any other absurd thing, without seriously considering taking up any of the afore-mentioned professions."
"Oh, you absurd young hypocrite. Run away now, and don't bother me. Go right over to the church at once and help Blanche. You always seem to miss every chance for getting better acquainted with her."
Elizabeth went slowly down the stairs, telling herself whimsically that the way of the transgressor62 was hard. She had not gone many steps before her spirit caught the mood of the radiant March day. There had been a light fall of snow in the morning, and the streets were beautiful for the moment under their fresh covering. The keen air and the dazzling sunlight brought a glow to her checks and a light to her eyes. She could not be troubled on such a radiant day by all the Miss Kendalls in Canada.
As she crossed the park, now a sparkling fairy garden, she was suddenly made conscious that a familiar figure was hastening along a crosspath in her direction; a comfortable-looking, middle-aged figure that moved with a stately stride. For an instant Elizabeth was possessed63 with a perverse64 feeling of irritation65, as though he were guilty of the restrictions66 laid upon her. That he was the innocent cause of some of them could not be denied, for he was a very particular gentleman as to his own and everyone else's deportment, and the sight of him always raised in her a desire to do something shocking.
He smiled with genuine pleasure as he greeted her; though his manner was formal and a trifle pompous.
"And how is Queen Elizabeth this afternoon?" he asked. "As radiant as usual, I perceive."
She returned his greeting a trifle constrainedly67, gave the requested permission to accompany her, and walked demurely68 at his side, her eyes cast down. She was wondering mischievously69 what he would say if she should tell him her reasons for wishing to escape her afternoon's engagement.
Their way led for a short distance along a splendid broad avenue that, starting at the park, stretched away down into the heart of the city. Its four rows of trees, drooping70 under their soft mantle71 of snow, extended far into the dim white distance.
"Toronto is a fine city," said Mr. Huntley proudly, "and just at this point one sees its best. Here are our legislative72 buildings, yonder a glimpse of our University, here a hospital, there a church and——"
"And here," said Elizabeth, unexpectedly turning a corner—"another aspect of the same city."
She had turned aside into a narrow alley73, which, in but a few steps led into a scene of painful contrast to the avenue. It was the slum district—right in the center of the beautiful city—the worm at the heart of the flower. Here the streets were narrow and dirty. Noisy ragged74 children, Italian vendors75, Jewish ragpickers, slatternly women, and drunken men brushed against them as they passed.
"You should not have come this way, Miss Gordon," said Mr. Huntley solicitously76, as he guided her across the black muck of the crossing, to which the snow had already been converted. "I hope you do not come here alone."
"I was never here before," said Elizabeth. "How terrible to live in comfort with this at one's back door, as it were." She shuddered77.
Mr. Huntley looked slightly disturbed. "I am glad you are not one of those sentimental78 young ladies of St. Stephen's, who have been seized with the romantic idea that they can overturn conditions here. These people are better left alone."
Elizabeth was silent. They had just passed a wee ragged girl, whose blue, pinched face and hungry eyes made her sick with pity. The child was calling shrilly79 to an equally ragged boy who had paused on the sidewalk a little ahead of them. The youngster was absorbed in tormenting80 a feeble old man, whose little wagon81 with its load of soiled clothing he had just overturned into the mud of the street. The man was making pitiful attempts to gather up his bundle, but his poor old frame, stiffened82 and twisted with rheumatism83, refused to bend. The urchin84 shouted with laughter, and his victim leaned against a wall whimpering helplessly. The sight of him hurt Elizabeth even more than the little girl's hungry face. She thought of her own father, and felt a hint of the anguish85 it would mean if ho should one day be ill-treated. The tears came, blinding her eyes so that she stumbled along the rotten sidewalk.
A young woman suddenly appeared from the door of a hovel that stood half-way down an alley just across the way. She had a ragged shawl over her head, her thin cotton shirt flapped about her meager86 limbs, and her feet were incased in men's boots. She ran swiftly to the old man, routed the urchin, and with many pitying, comforting words began gathering up the contents of the wagon. Elizabeth longed to stay and help and comfort them both; she listened eagerly, after they had passed, to catch what the girl was saying. "Poor grandaddy," she heard again and again. "Poor grandaddy, I shouldn't have let ye go alone."
There was something about her that drew Elizabeth to her. She wanted to stop and thank her for the assurance that love could blossom so beautifully even in this barren spot. Her voice, too, haunted her. Where had she heard that soft Highland87 accent before? It seemed to bring some vague memory of childhood. She glanced up at her companion, wondering if she dared step back and speak to the pair.
But Mr. Huntley did not seem to have noticed them. He was looking across the street with an air of half-amused interest.
"I'm rather glad you brought me around this way, Miss Gordon," he said, the amusement in his face deepening. "I own some property here that I haven't seen for years." He waved his cane88 in the direction of the row of houses across the street. Elizabeth looked back, the old man and the girl were disappearing down the alley into one of them.
"They are a hard lot, my tenants89. If some of the young ladies of St. Stephen's experienced a little of the difficulty my agent has collecting rent, or came across one fraction of the fraud and trickery these people can practice, their philanthropy would cool slightly."
Elizabeth was too much moved to speak. It hurt her so to find him unsympathetic. To her unaccustomed eyes the signs of want on all sides were unspeakably pitiful, and in the face of it his indifference was callous and cruel. She struggled to keep back the tears, tears of both sorrow and indignation.
They had emerged into the region of broad, clean streets now, and her companion, glancing down at her, saw she was disturbed. He strove to raise her spirits by cheerful talk, but Elizabeth refused to respond. She looked so depressed90 he suddenly thought of a little surprise he had in store for her, which would be likely to make her happy.
"By the way, what is your brother going to do when he graduates next spring?" he inquired.
"I don't know," said Elizabeth, reviving somewhat at the mention of John. This was a subject upon which the brother and sister had had much anxious discussion. It was imperative that he should earn some money immediately, to pay his college debts, for this last year was to be partially91 on borrowed money.
"John's just worrying about that," she added frankly92. "He'd like to get some experience in a hospital, but he really ought to be earning money."
"They want a young medical this spring up on this new North American line I'm interested in. There are hundreds of men on the construction. Ask him if he'd like that. It is a good thing, lots of practice, and more pay."
Elizabeth looked up at him, her eyes aglow93 with gratitude94. To help John was to do her the greatest favor. She had heard him again and again expressing a desire for some such appointment.
"Oh, how can I thank you?" she cried, the light returning to her face. "It would mean everything to John. You are so kind." She gave him another glance, that set his middle-aged heart beating just a trifle faster.
They had reached the steps of St. Stephen's by this time, and Elizabeth's leave-taking was warmly grateful. Yes, she would be home in the evening when he called, she promised.
As she ascended95 the steps of the church she was reminded by the booming of the bell in the city tower that she was half an hour early. Why not run back to No. 15 and tell John the good news? His afternoon lectures had stopped and he would probably be studying. She turned quickly and ran down the steps. As she did so she was surprised to meet several young men and women ascending96 them. Surely they could not all belong to Miss Kendall's dramatic troupe97, she reflected, as she hurried away.
John was in his room and alone, and when he heard Elizabeth's news he caught her round the waist and danced about until Mrs. Dalley sent up by one of her maids to inquire if them young men didn't care if the plaster in the ceiling below all fell down? The dancers collapsed98 joyously99 upon the sofa, and Elizabeth, looking at John's glowing face, felt what happiness might be hers one day if she had wealth enough to help her family to their desires.
"This is the bulliest thing that ever happened," cried John boyishly. "Say, he thinks all manner of things about you, Lizzie, I can see."
Elizabeth blushed. "Nonsense. It's your profound learning and great medical skill that attracted him."
"When did he tell you?"
"Just this afternoon. I was going to the church to a committee meeting of Miss Kendall's—the church caller, John, just think, haven't I the courage of a V. C.?—and he walked there with me—and oh, John, we came through Newton Street, and it's an awful place. I never dreamed there was such poverty right near us. Isn't it wicked to eat three meals a day and be well dressed, when people are starving right at one's door?"
"I suppose some of those poor beggars do have a kind of slim diet, but it's half their own fault. Don't you go and get batty over them, now. Mac has it so bad I can't stand another."
"Stuart? What about him?"
"He's got into some kind of mission business down in that hole; but don't tell him I let it out. He's the kind that would cut his right hand off if it hinted its doings to his left hand."
"Why, what does he do there?" Elizabeth's voice had a wistful note. This was just what she should have been doing, but Charles Stuart had never appealed to her for help. He knew better, she told herself, with some bitterness.
"Oh, all sorts of stunts—boys' club and Sunday school; everything from nursing babies to hammering drunks that abuse their wives. He keeps me and old Bagsley humping, too. It's good practice, but the pay's all glory. Bags has about a dozen patients down there now."
Elizabeth was silent; that old, old feeling of despair that used to come over her when John and Charles Stuart disappeared down the lane, leaving her far behind, was stealing over her. They had gone away ahead again, and she—she was no use in the world, and so was left to drift.
"I suppose he's going to be a minister after all, then," she said at last, rising and wrapping her fur around her slim throat. "Mother MacAllister will be happy."
"I don't know if he is. He's got all muddled100 up in some theological tangle52. Knox fellows come over here and they argue all night sometimes, and Mac doesn't seem to know where he's at in regard to the Bible." John laughed easily. "Never mind, Betsey, I'm acting physician to the new British North American Railroad, and you're a brick, so you are!"
But the light did not return to Elizabeth's face. John followed her down to the door, bidding her an affectionate and grateful farewell.
"This is better than putting up my shingle101 in Forest Glen and living in old Sandy's house, eh?" he asked laughingly, as they parted.
Elizabeth smiled and nodded good-by. John had always prophesied102 dolefully that he would set up a practice in Forest Glen with her as his housekeeper103. They would live in old Sandy McLachlan's log house, for he was sure he could not afford anything better, and it would suit Lizzie's style of housekeeping.
The reference to the old place cleared some misty104 memory that had been struggling for recognition in Elizabeth's brain. She stopped short on the street—"Eppie!" she said, almost aloud. Could it be Eppie she had seen on Newton Street, and could that old man be her grandfather?
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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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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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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renouncing
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的现在分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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usurper
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| n. 篡夺者, 僭取者 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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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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callously
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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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waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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promptly
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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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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imperative
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guild
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| n.行会，同业公会，协会 | |
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luncheons
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| n.午餐，午宴( luncheon的名词复数 ) | |
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shareholder
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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pointed
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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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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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heralds
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| n.使者( herald的名词复数 )；预报者；预兆；传令官v.预示( herald的第三人称单数 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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radiator
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| n.暖气片，散热器 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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54
theatricals
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| n.（业余性的）戏剧演出，舞台表演艺术；职业演员；戏剧的( theatrical的名词复数 )；剧场的；炫耀的；戏剧性的 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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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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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rebelliously
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| adv.造反地，难以控制地 | |
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pelican
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| n.鹈鹕，伽蓝鸟 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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transgressor
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| n.违背者 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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constrainedly
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| 不自然地，勉强地，强制地 | |
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demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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legislative
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| n.立法机构，立法权；adj.立法的，有立法权的 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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vendors
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| n.摊贩( vendor的名词复数 )；小贩；（房屋等的）卖主；卖方 | |
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solicitously
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| adv.热心地，热切地 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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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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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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meager
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| adj.缺乏的，不足的，瘦的 | |
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highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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troupe
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| n.剧团，戏班；杂技团；马戏团 | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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100
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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101
shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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102
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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104
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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