Mr. Dickson thought a moment, and then said quickly, “The widow of one of our men lives in a little cottage not a quarter of a mile from here; it stands on Corlot ground—not Marshfielden. She has a hard struggle to make both ends meet. I will send round at once and see if she is willing to take you two as lodgers. If she will—then go to her, for she is clean, respectable, and will look after you well. Meanwhile, neither of you has had a day off yet, so go and arrange about your luggage, and I’ll see you are fixed up somewhere with rooms.” “Thanks,” said Alan. “I shall be very sorry to leave Marshfielden though. It is such a quaint, old-world place.” “Far too old-world for strangers,” said Mr. Dickson significantly. The little village street was buzzing with excitement when they reached Marshfielden. Women were rushing to and fro across the cobbled stones, and the whole place showed signs of some great disturbance. As the boys approached, a sudden hush seemed to pervade the place, and the women huddled together and whispered “The ‘Curse’! The ‘Curse’!” Alan shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll see to the things,” said he. “You go along to Mr. Winthrop, and tell him of the change in our plans.” “Right, old boy,” and Desmond went towards Mr. Winthrop’s rooms, whistling and doing his best to ignore the hostile looks that were directed at him. Alan went into the little room that had become so dear to them both. The cottage was deserted, Mrs. Slater was absent, and as he made his way up to the little bedroom, he sighed as he thought of leaving the dear little place. In a very short space of time the drawers were emptied and the trunks packed; everything was done except the putting together of the hundred and one odds and ends that invariably remain about. “That’s good!” said he to himself, as he rose from his knees, having finished strapping up the trunks, and he surveyed his handiwork with pride, as he realized the short time it had taken him to complete it all. “Alan!”—He turned round suddenly—it was Desmond’s voice. “Coming, old chap,” but Desmond was in the room, with a white, set face, trembling limbs and a look of horror in his eyes. “Good God! Whatever is the matter?” he asked. “John Meal—Matt Harding—” gasped Desmond. “Have found Dan’s boy?” eagerly. “No. Their children have disappeared too!” “_What?_” “It’s true! Mr. Winthrop told me. That’s what caused the commotion when we arrived here this morning. This news had only just become known.” Alan seemed struck dumb. He looked at Desmond with unseeing eyes; his tongue swelled, and his mouth grew parched, but his lips would not form words. Then suddenly sounds came. “I wonder—is it the ‘Curse’ after all?” “I wondered that too.” “When were they missed?” “The children were all in school safe and sound. Lunch time came and they were seen to enter the playground with the other little ones. Ten minutes later the bell was rung for them all to reassemble.