ADAM did not ask Dinah to take his arm when they got out into the lane. He had never yet done so, often as they had walked together, for he had observed that she never walked arm-in-arm with Seth, and he thought, perhaps, that kind of support was not agreeable to her. So they walked apart, though side by side, and the close poke1 of her little black bonnet2 hid her face from him.
“You can’t be happy, then, to make the Hall Farm your home, Dinah?” Adam said, with the quiet interest of a brother, who has no anxiety for himself in the matter. “It’s a pity, seeing they’re so fond of you.”
“You know, Adam, my heart is as their heart, so far as love for them and care for their welfare goes, but they are in no present need. Their sorrows are healed, and I feel that I am called back to my old work, in which I found a blessing3 that I have missed of late in the midst of too abundant worldly good. I know it is a vain thought to flee from the work that God appoints us, for the sake of finding a greater blessing to our own souls, as if we could choose for ourselves where we shall find the fulness of the Divine Presence, instead of seeking it where alone it is to be found, in loving obedience4. But now, I believe, I have a clear showing that my work lies elsewhere — at least for a time. In the years to come, if my aunt’s health should fail, or she should otherwise need me, I shall return.”
“You know best, Dinah,” said Adam. “I don’t believe you’d go against the wishes of them that love you, and are akin5 to you, without a good and sufficient reason in your own conscience. I’ve no right to say anything about my being sorry: you know well enough what cause I have to put you above every other friend I’ve got; and if it had been ordered so that you could ha’ been my sister, and lived with us all our lives, I should ha’ counted it the greatest blessing as could happen to us now. But Seth tells me there’s no hope o’ that: your feelings are different, and perhaps I’m taking too much upon me to speak about it.”
Dinah made no answer, and they walked on in silence for some yards, till they came to the stone stile, where, as Adam had passed through first and turned round to give her his hand while she mounted the unusually high step, she could not prevent him from seeing her face. It struck him with surprise, for the grey eyes, usually so mild and grave, had the bright uneasy glance which accompanies suppressed agitation6, and the slight flush in her cheeks, with which she had come downstairs, was heightened to a deep rose-colour. She looked as if she were only sister to Dinah. Adam was silent with surprise and conjecture7 for some moments, and then he said, “I hope I’ve not hurt or displeased8 you by what I’ve said, Dinah. Perhaps I was making too free. I’ve no wish different from what you see to be best, and I’m satisfied for you to live thirty mile off, if you think it right. I shall think of you just as much as I do now, for you’re bound up with what I can no more help remembering than I can help my heart beating.”
Poor Adam! Thus do men blunder. Dinah made no answer, but she presently said, “Have you heard any news from that poor young man, since we last spoke9 of him?”
Dinah always called Arthur so; she had never lost the image of him as she had seen him in the prison.
“Yes,” said Adam. “Mr. Irwine read me part of a letter from him yesterday. It’s pretty certain, they say, that there’ll be a peace soon, though nobody believes it’ll last long; but he says he doesn’t mean to come home. He’s no heart for it yet, and it’s better for others that he should keep away. Mr. Irwine thinks he’s in the right not to come. It’s a sorrowful letter. He asks about you and the Poysers, as he always does. There’s one thing in the letter cut me a good deal: ‘You can’t think what an old fellow I feel,’ he says; ‘I make no schemes now. I’m the best when I’ve a good day’s march or fighting before me.’”
“He’s of a rash, warm-hearted nature, like Esau, for whom I have always felt great pity,” said Dinah. “That meeting between the brothers, where Esau is so loving and generous, and Jacob so timid and distrustful, notwithstanding his sense of the Divine favour, has always touched me greatly. Truly, I have been tempted10 sometimes to say that Jacob was of a mean spirit. But that is our trial: we must learn to see the good in the midst of much that is unlovely.”
“Ah,” said Adam, “I like to read about Moses best, in th’ Old Testament11. He carried a hard business well through, and died when other folks were going to reap the fruits. A man must have courage to look at his life so, and think what’ll come of it after he’s dead and gone. A good solid bit o’ work lasts: if it’s only laying a floor down, somebody’s the better for it being done well, besides the man as does it.”
They were both glad to talk of subjects that were not personal, and in this way they went on till they passed the bridge across the Willow12 Brook13, when Adam turned round and said, “Ah, here’s Seth. I thought he’d be home soon. Does he know of you’re going, Dinah?”
“Yes, I told him last Sabbath.”
Adam remembered now that Seth had come home much depressed14 on Sunday evening, a circumstance which had been very unusual with him of late, for the happiness he had in seeing Dinah every week seemed long to have outweighed15 the pain of knowing she would never marry him. This evening he had his habitual16 air of dreamy benignant contentment, until he came quite close to Dinah and saw the traces of tears on her delicate eyelids17 and eyelashes. He gave one rapid glance at his brother, but Adam was evidently quite outside the current of emotion that had shaken Dinah: he wore his everyday look of unexpectant calm. Seth tried not to let Dinah see that he had noticed her face, and only said, “I’m thankful you’re come, Dinah, for Mother’s been hungering after the sight of you all day. She began to talk of you the first thing in the morning.”
When they entered the cottage, Lisbeth was seated in her arm- chair, too tired with setting out the evening meal, a task she always performed a long time beforehand, to go and meet them at the door as usual, when she heard the approaching footsteps.
“Coom, child, thee’t coom at last,” she said, when Dinah went towards her. “What dost mane by lavin’ me a week an’ ne’er coomin’ a-nigh me?”
“Dear friend,” said Dinah, taking her hand, “you’re not well. If I’d known it sooner, I’d have come.”
“An’ how’s thee t’ know if thee dostna coom? Th’ lads on’y know what I tell ’em. As long as ye can stir hand and foot the men think ye’re hearty18. But I’m none so bad, on’y a bit of a cold sets me achin’. An’ th’ lads tease me so t’ ha’ somebody wi’ me t’ do the work — they make me ache worse wi’ talkin’. If thee’dst come and stay wi’ me, they’d let me alone. The Poysers canna want thee so bad as I do. But take thy bonnet off, an’ let me look at thee.”
Dinah was moving away, but Lisbeth held her fast, while she was taking off her bonnet, and looked at her face as one looks into a newly gathered snowdrop, to renew the old impressions of purity and gentleness.
“What’s the matter wi’ thee?” said Lisbeth, in astonishment19; “thee’st been a-cryin’.”
“It’s only a grief that’ll pass away,” said Dinah, who did not wish just now to call forth20 Lisbeth’s remonstrances21 by disclosing her intention to leave Hayslope. “You shall know about it shortly — we’ll talk of it to-night. I shall stay with you to- night.”
Lisbeth was pacified22 by this prospect23. And she had the whole evening to talk with Dinah alone; for there was a new room in the cottage, you remember, built nearly two years ago, in the expectation of a new inmate24; and here Adam always sat when he had writing to do or plans to make. Seth sat there too this evening, for he knew his mother would like to have Dinah all to herself.
There were two pretty pictures on the two sides of the wall in the cottage. On one side there was the broad-shouldered, large- featured, hardy25 old woman, in her blue jacket and buff kerchief, with her dim-eyed anxious looks turned continually on the lily face and the slight form in the black dress that were either moving lightly about in helpful activity, or seated close by the old woman’s arm-chair, holding her withered26 hand, with eyes lifted up towards her to speak a language which Lisbeth understood far better than the Bible or the hymn-book. She would scarcely listen to reading at all to-night. “Nay27, nay, shut the book,” she said. “We mun talk. I want t’ know what thee was cryin’ about. Hast got troubles o’ thy own, like other folks?”
On the other side of the wall there were the two brothers so like each other in the midst of their unlikeness: Adam with knit brows, shaggy hair, and dark vigorous colour, absorbed in his “figuring”; Seth, with large rugged28 features, the close copy of his brother’s, but with thin, wavy29, brown hair and blue dreamy eyes, as often as not looking vaguely30 out of the window instead of at his book, although it was a newly bought book — Wesley’s abridgment31 of Madame Guyon’s life, which was full of wonder and interest for him. Seth had said to Adam, “Can I help thee with anything in here to-night? I don’t want to make a noise in the shop.”
“No, lad,” Adam answered, “there’s nothing but what I must do myself. Thee’st got thy new book to read.”
And often, when Seth was quite unconscious, Adam, as he paused after drawing a line with his ruler, looked at his brother with a kind smile dawning in his eyes. He knew “th’ lad liked to sit full o’ thoughts he could give no account of; they’d never come t’ anything, but they made him happy,” and in the last year or so, Adam had been getting more and more indulgent to Seth. It was part of that growing tenderness which came from the sorrow at work within him.
For Adam, though you see him quite master of himself, working hard and delighting in his work after his inborn32 inalienable nature, had not outlived his sorrow — had not felt it slip from him as a temporary burden, and leave him the same man again. Do any of us? God forbid. It would be a poor result of all our anguish33 and our wrestling if we won nothing but our old selves at the end of it — if we could return to the same blind loves, the same self- confident blame, the same light thoughts of human suffering, the same frivolous34 gossip over blighted35 human lives, the same feeble sense of that Unknown towards which we have sent forth irrepressible cries in our loneliness. Let us rather be thankful that our sorrow lives in us as an indestructible force, only changing its form, as forces do, and passing from pain into sympathy — the one poor word which includes all our best insight and our best love. Not that this transformation36 of pain into sympathy had completely taken place in Adam yet. There was still a great remnant of pain, and this he felt would subsist37 as long as her pain was not a memory, but an existing thing, which he must think of as renewed with the light of every new morning. But we get accustomed to mental as well as bodily pain, without, for all that, losing our sensibility to it. It becomes a habit of our lives, and we cease to imagine a condition of perfect ease as possible for us. Desire is chastened into submission38, and we are contented39 with our day when we have been able to bear our grief in silence and act as if we were not suffering. For it is at such periods that the sense of our lives having visible and invisible relations, beyond any of which either our present or prospective40 self is the centre, grows like a muscle that we are obliged to lean on and exert.
That was Adam’s state of mind in this second autumn of his sorrow. His work, as you know, had always been part of his religion, and from very early days he saw clearly that good carpentry was God’s will — was that form of God’s will that most immediately concerned him. But now there was no margin41 of dreams for him beyond this daylight reality, no holiday-time in the working-day world, no moment in the distance when duty would take off her iron glove and breast-plate and clasp him gently into rest. He conceived no picture of the future but one made up of hard-working days such as he lived through, with growing contentment and intensity42 of interest, every fresh week. Love, he thought, could never be anything to him but a living memory — a limb lopped off, but not gone from consciousness. He did not know that the power of loving was all the while gaining new force within him; that the new sensibilities bought by a deep experience were so many new fibres by which it was possible, nay, necessary to him, that his nature should intertwine with another. Yet he was aware that common affection and friendship were more precious to him than they used to be — that he clung more to his mother and Seth, and had an unspeakable satisfaction in the sight or imagination of any small addition to their happiness. The Poysers, too — hardly three or four days passed but he felt the need of seeing them and interchanging words and looks of friendliness43 with them. He would have felt this, probably, even if Dinah had not been with them, but he had only said the simplest truth in telling Dinah that he put her above all other friends in the world. Could anything be more natural? For in the darkest moments of memory the thought of her always came as the first ray of returning comfort. The early days of gloom at the Hall Farm had been gradually turned into soft moonlight by her presence; and in the cottage, too, for she had come at every spare moment to soothe44 and cheer poor Lisbeth, who had been stricken with a fear that subdued45 even her querulousness at the sight of her darling Adam’s grief-worn face. He had become used to watching her light quiet movements, her pretty loving ways to the children, when he went to the Hall Farm; to listen for her voice as for a recurrent music; to think everything she said and did was just right, and could not have been better. In spite of his wisdom, he could not find fault with her for her overindulgence of the children, who had managed to convert Dinah the preacher, before whom a circle of rough men had often trembled a little, into a convenient household slave — though Dinah herself was rather ashamed of this weakness, and had some inward conflict as to her departure from the precepts46 of Solomon. Yes, there was one thing that might have been better; she might have loved Seth and consented to marry him. He felt a little vexed47, for his brother’s sake, and he could not help thinking regretfully how Dinah, as Seth’s wife, would have made their home as happy as it could be for them all — how she was the one being that would have soothed48 their mother’s last days into peacefulness and rest.
“It’s wonderful she doesn’t love th’ lad,” Adam had said sometimes to himself, “for anybody ’ud think he was just cut out for her. But her heart’s so taken up with other things. She’s one o’ those women that feel no drawing towards having a husband and children o’ their own. She thinks she should be filled up with her own life then, and she’s been used so to living in other folks’s cares, she can’t bear the thought of her heart being shut up from ’em. I see how it is, well enough. She’s cut out o’ different stuff from most women: I saw that long ago. She’s never easy but when she’s helping49 somebody, and marriage ’ud interfere50 with her ways — that’s true. I’ve no right to be contriving51 and thinking it ’ud be better if she’d have Seth, as if I was wiser than she is — or than God either, for He made her what she is, and that’s one o’ the greatest blessings52 I’ve ever had from His hands, and others besides me.”
This self-reproof had recurred53 strongly to Adam’s mind when he gathered from Dinah’s face that he had wounded her by referring to his wish that she had accepted Seth, and so he had endeavoured to put into the strongest words his confidence in her decision as right — his resignation even to her going away from them and ceasing to make part of their life otherwise than by living in their thoughts, if that separation were chosen by herself. He felt sure she knew quite well enough how much he cared to see her continually — to talk to her with the silent consciousness of a mutual54 great remembrance. It was not possible she should hear anything but self-renouncing affection and respect in his assurance that he was contented for her to go away; and yet there remained an uneasy feeling in his mind that he had not said quite the right thing — that, somehow, Dinah had not understood him.
Dinah must have risen a little before the sun the next morning, for she was downstairs about five o’clock. So was Seth, for, through Lisbeth’s obstinate55 refusal to have any woman-helper in the house, he had learned to make himself, as Adam said, “very handy in the housework,” that he might save his mother from too great weariness; on which ground I hope you will not think him unmanly, any more than you can have thought the gallant56 Colonel Bath unmanly when he made the gruel57 for his invalid58 sister. Adam, who had sat up late at his writing, was still asleep, and was not likely, Seth said, to be down till breakfast-time. Often as Dinah had visited Lisbeth during the last eighteen months, she had never slept in the cottage since that night after Thias’s death, when, you remember, Lisbeth praised her deft59 movements and even gave a modified approval to her porridge. But in that long interval60 Dinah had made great advances in household cleverness, and this morning, since Seth was there to help, she was bent61 on bringing everything to a pitch of cleanliness and order that would have satisfied her Aunt Poyser. The cottage was far from that standard at present, for Lisbeth’s rheumatism62 had forced her to give up her old habits of dilettante63 scouring64 and polishing. When the kitchen was to her mind, Dinah went into the new room, where Adam had been writing the night before, to see what sweeping65 and dusting were needed there. She opened the window and let in the fresh morning air, and the smell of the sweet-brier, and the bright low-slanting rays of the early sun, which made a glory about her pale face and pale auburn hair as she held the long brush, and swept, singing to herself in a very low tone — like a sweet summer murmur66 that you have to listen for very closely — one of Charles Wesley’s hymns67:
Eternal Beam of Light Divine,
Fountain of unexhausted love,
In whom the Father’s glories shine,
Through earth beneath and heaven above;
Jesus! the weary wanderer’s rest,
Give me thy easy yoke68 to bear;
With steadfast69 patience arm my breast,
With spotless love and holy fear.
Speak to my warring passions, “Peace!”
Say to my trembling heart, “Be still!”
Thy power my strength and fortress70 is,
For all things serve thy sovereign will.
She laid by the brush and took up the duster; and if you had ever lived in Mrs. Poyser’s household, you would know how the duster behaved in Dinah’s hand — how it went into every small corner, and on every ledge71 in and out of sight — how it went again and again round every bar of the chairs, and every leg, and under and over everything that lay on the table, till it came to Adam’s papers and rulers and the open desk near them. Dinah dusted up to the very edge of these and then hesitated, looking at them with a longing72 but timid eye. It was painful to see how much dust there was among them. As she was looking in this way, she heard Seth’s step just outside the open door, towards which her back was turned, and said, raising her clear treble, “Seth, is your brother wrathful when his papers are stirred?”
“Yes, very, when they are not put back in the right places,” said a deep strong voice, not Seth’s.
It was as if Dinah had put her hands unawares on a vibrating chord. She was shaken with an intense thrill, and for the instant felt nothing else; then she knew her cheeks were glowing, and dared not look round, but stood still, distressed73 because she could not say good-morning in a friendly way. Adam, finding that she did not look round so as to see the smile on his face, was afraid she had thought him serious about his wrathfulness, and went up to her, so that she was obliged to look at him.
“What! You think I’m a cross fellow at home, Dinah?” he said, smilingly.
“Nay,” said Dinah, looking up with timid eyes, “not so. But you might be put about by finding things meddled74 with; and even the man Moses, the meekest75 of men, was wrathful sometimes.”
“Come, then,” said Adam, looking at her affectionately, “I’ll help you move the things, and put ’em back again, and then they can’t get wrong. You’re getting to be your aunt’s own niece, I see, for particularness.”
They began their little task together, but Dinah had not recovered herself sufficiently76 to think of any remark, and Adam looked at her uneasily. Dinah, he thought, had seemed to disapprove77 him somehow lately; she had not been so kind and open to him as she used to be. He wanted her to look at him, and be as pleased as he was himself with doing this bit of playful work. But Dinah did not look at him — it was easy for her to avoid looking at the tall man — and when at last there was no more dusting to be done and no further excuse for him to linger near her, he could bear it no longer, and said, in rather a pleading tone, “Dinah, you’re not displeased with me for anything, are you? I’ve not said or done anything to make you think ill of me?”
The question surprised her, and relieved her by giving a new course to her feeling. She looked up at him now, quite earnestly, almost with the tears coming, and said, “Oh, no, Adam! how could you think so?”
“I couldn’t bear you not to feel as much a friend to me as I do to you,” said Adam. “And you don’t know the value I set on the very thought of you, Dinah. That was what I meant yesterday, when I said I’d be content for you to go, if you thought right. I meant, the thought of you was worth so much to me, I should feel I ought to be thankful, and not grumble78, if you see right to go away. You know I do mind parting with you, Dinah?”
“Yes, dear friend,” said Dinah, trembling, but trying to speak calmly, “I know you have a brother’s heart towards me, and we shall often be with one another in spirit; but at this season I am in heaviness through manifold temptations. You must not mark me. I feel called to leave my kindred for a while; but it is a trial — the flesh is weak.”
Adam saw that it pained her to be obliged to answer.
“I hurt you by talking about it, Dinah,” he said. “I’ll say no more. Let’s see if Seth’s ready with breakfast now.”
That is a simple scene, reader. But it is almost certain that you, too, have been in love — perhaps, even, more than once, though you may not choose to say so to all your feminine friends. If so, you will no more think the slight words, the timid looks, the tremulous touches, by which two human souls approach each other gradually, like two little quivering rain-streams, before they mingle79 into one — you will no more think these things trivial than you will think the first-detected signs of coming spring trivial, though they be but a faint indescribable something in the air and in the song of the birds, and the tiniest perceptible budding on the hedge-row branches. Those slight words and looks and touches are part of the soul’s language; and the finest language, I believe, is chiefly made up of unimposing words, such as “light,” “sound,” “stars,” “music”— words really not worth looking at, or hearing, in themselves, any more than “chips” or “sawdust.” It is only that they happen to be the signs of something unspeakably great and beautiful. I am of opinion that love is a great and beautiful thing too, and if you agree with me, the smallest signs of it will not be chips and sawdust to you: they will rather be like those little words,”light” and “music,” stirring the long- winding80 fibres of your memory and enriching your present with your most precious past.
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poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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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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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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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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outweighed
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| v.在重量上超过( outweigh的过去式和过去分词 )；在重要性或价值方面超过 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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pacified
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的过去式和过去分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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abridgment
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| n.删节，节本 | |
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inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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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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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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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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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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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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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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52
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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gruel
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| n.稀饭，粥 | |
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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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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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dilettante
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| n.半瓶醋，业余爱好者 | |
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scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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meddled
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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meekest
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| adj.温顺的，驯服的( meek的最高级 ) | |
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76
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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78
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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