It was, therefore, an ideal place to live in and as old Mr. Winthrop walked down the uneven street, his eyes dimmed and his thoughts were tender as he acknowledged first one, then another of his flock. He stopped at the gate of a pretty, white cottage with a well kept garden full of sweet-smelling flowers, and greeted the woman who stood at the gate. She was quite young and pretty, and maternal love and pride glowed in her face as she gently crooned over the sleeping babe at her breast. “And how’s Jimmy, Mrs. Slater?” he asked. “Very well indeed, sir, thank you.” “And you—how are you feeling?” “Quite all right again, now, sir.” “That’s right. And your husband?” “Yes, sir, he’s had a rise at the mine.” Mr. Winthrop smiled and was about to pass on, when he noticed an underlying current of excitement in the woman’s manner. He looked at her curiously. “What is the matter, Mrs. Slater?” he asked. “Have you heard the news, sir?” “No. What news?” “I be agoin’ to have lodgers.” “Really?” “Well I heard only last night, sir. Bill—he came home and said as ’ow Mr. Dickson, the manager at the mine, had heard from Sir John Forsyth—” “The new owner of Grimland?” queried Mr. Winthrop. “Yes, sir. Well, he said as ’ow Sir John wanted both his nephews to go to the mine and learn the practical working of it—and Mr. Dickson was to find them rooms near by.” “Well?” “Well, Mr. Dickson knows as ’ow my ’ome is clean—” and Mrs. Slater looked around her little cottage with an air of pride. “And ’e asks Bill if I would take them.” “And so you are going to?” The woman looked round her fearfully. “I’ve a spare bedroom, sir, which I’ve cleaned up, and they can have my parlour. But fancy, sir, two strangers in Marshfielden!” “It will liven things up,” remarked the vicar “we’ve never had strangers to live here since I came—now over forty years ago.” “No, sir, nor before that,” went on the woman in a low tone. “My grandmother used to speak of two ladies who came to Marshfielden when she was a little girl. Artists they were, and strangers. The clergyman’s wife put them up—and—and—” “Yes?” urged Mr. Winthrop gently. “Well, sir, they were both found dead one day, stiff and cold, sir, outside the ruins of the Priory. They had been painting, and their easels were left standing—but they were dead.” “What has that to do with the case?” asked the vicar with a little smile. “Don’t you see, sir,” she went on quickly, the same half-scared look coming into her eyes, “that was the ‘Curse’ that caused those mishaps, and I am afraid the ‘Curse’ will be on the two young gentlemen, too.” “Nonsense,” laughed Mr. Winthrop, “You don’t really believe that the ‘Marshfielden Curse’ as you people call it, had anything to do with the deaths of those two lady artists that occurred over fifty years ago?”