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Updated: June 25, 2025
Crosland entered the tiniest pony-carriage, and set forth for her own residence, with a lad walking at the pony's head, and carrying a lantern. . . . March 26th. Yesterday was not a very eventful day. After writing in my journal I went out at twelve, and visited, for the first time, the National Gallery.
Entzminger, in addition to conducting the publishing house, must also conduct the mission operations in Nictheroy, a city of 40,000; Shepard, Taylor and Langston have placed upon their shoulders the tremendous responsibility of conducting the college and seminary; Cannada must give his energies to the Flumenense School for Boys, leaving only Maddox, Christie and Crosland at liberty to do the wider evangelistic work and care for the many churches which the success of their labors have thrust upon them.
"George is in Paris, at least he was three days ago," and Crosland produced a picture postcard sent to his mother. "We are expecting him back at the end of the week." "I suppose, Mr. Crosland, you have no suspicions regarding this affair?" "I don't quite understand what you mean."
The friend from whom I have before quoted, Mrs. Crosland, a most loyal lady, wrote on this text a very sweet poem, from which I am tempted to give a few verses: "Sleep, far the night is round thee spread, Thou daughter of a line of kings; Sleep, widowed Queen, white angels' wings Make canopy above thy head!
This is as funny as Crosland at his best, say his round arm hit at Burns, the "incontinent and libidinous ploughman with a turn for verse" a sublime bladder whack! But listen also to the poor victim, Mr Wilfred Blunt, M.P., and what he has to say in the "Contemporary Review."
There was no portrait of Mrs. Crosland about, so I could not tell which of them took after the mother. Had you told me that Helen Crosland was the butler's daughter I should have believed you. Did you notice the likeness, Wigan?" "No," I said with a smile. It seemed to me that the theory had got altogether out of hand. "Well, it made me curious about the nephew," Quarles went on.
"That is guessing with a vengeance," I said. "Yes, but not without some reason," Quarles went on. "Let's go back to the Grange Park burglaries for a moment, and suppose that a gang of expert thieves under the name of Crosland took Clarence Lodge.
"He is the man I told Crosland of, the man who cured rheumatism so marvelously. I suppose Morrison misread my letter and went at once instead of waiting to be sent for." "Crosland appears to have given him a piece of his mind," I laughed, "and called you a meddlesome fool." "Poor old Morrison, but it serves him right." "He managed to see Mrs. Crosland," I said.
The instinct of worship, the religion of humanity, and a spiritual unity of zeal, love, and worship preside over her work. To this period belong the writings of Mrs. Norton, Mrs. Blackwood, Mrs. Crosland, Mary Howitt, and Eliza Cook.
I do not think I have ever seen the professor so excited. Mrs. Crosland had a son and daughter and a nephew living with her. It was the daughter who had run down the drive and called Poulton. There were four servants, a butler and two women in the house and a chauffeur who lived over the garage. There was besides a nurse, for Mrs.
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