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Updated: May 6, 2025
Home was therefore the centre of her thoughts and affections, but not the selfish centre: beyond that happy circle often went out her thoughts, laden with kind wishes that died not fruitless. The family of Mr. Markland consisted of his wife, four children, and a maiden sister Grace Markland, the latter by no means one of the worst specimens of her class.
"The highest excellence the greatest glory the truest honour must be in God," said the old man. "All will admit that," returned Markland. "Those, then, who are most like him, are most excellent most honourable." "Yes." "Love," continued Mr. Allison, "is the very essential nature of God not love of self, but love of creating and blessing others, out of himself.
"This is a risky sort of business," so his friend had written him. "I succeeded in getting your letter into the young lady's hands, but not without danger of discovery. For whole hours I loitered in the grounds of Mr. Markland, and was going to leave for the city without accomplishing my errand, when I saw Fanny coming in the direction of the summer-house.
Markland, after a few moments were given to self-control, "have simple regard to ourselves; and their indulgence never brings the promised happiness. This is why a wise and good Creator permits our natural desires to be so often thwarted. In this there is mercy, and not unkindness; for the fruition of these desires would often be most exquisite misery."
"True true; and the worst may have already happened," said Fenwick. "Still, an agent must go out, and vigorous efforts be made to save our property." "It will scarcely be worth saving, if in the condition represented, and all our funds dissipated." Fenwick sighed. There was something in that sigh, as it reached the ears of Markland, which seemed like a mockery of trouble.
The little boy did not, perhaps, put these questions into form, but they were all in his mind, filling him with a vague, delicious exhilaration. He was all of them put together, and little Geoff Markland beside.
When we saunter along down the column further still and read the poetry about little Ferguson, the word torture but vaguely suggests the anguish that rends us. On the 5th inst., Mary C. Welch, wife of William B. Welch, and daughter of Catharine and George W. Markland, in the 29th year of her age. A mother dear, a mother kind, Has gone and left us all behind.
"Perhaps you have not heard about it. It was there Markland spent the last afternoon before his accident, almost the last day of his life. It gives her a bitter sort of association with the place." "Markland?" said Dick. "Oh yes, I remember. Lord Markland, who He died, didn't he? It may not be a satisfactory household, but still he might have gone there without any harm."
As her mother bent over and kissed her, she threw her arms around her neck and clung to her tightly. "My dear child!" said Mrs. Markland, in a loving voice. "Dear, dear mother!" was answered, with a gush of feeling. "Something is troubling you, Fanny. You are greatly changed. Will you not open your heart to me?" "Oh, mother!" She sobbed out the words. "Am I not your truest friend?" said Mrs.
At the mill in Markland- street, which used to be called "Noggy Tow," the school was very prosperous; but the accomodation here at length became defective, and in 1832 the scholars retraced their steps to Gildow-street, not to the small toffy establishment, where sucklings, if not babes, were cared for, but to a building at the opposite end of the thoroughfare erected specially for them.
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