“Indeed I do, sir,” averred the woman. “Why ever since the Priory was dismantled by Henry the Eighth, the ‘Curse’ has been on this place. That wasn’t the only case, sir. There are records of many others—but that was the last.” “Let me see,” began the vicar, “It’s so long since I even heard it mentioned, that I’ve forgotten what it was.” The woman’s face contracted as if she was afraid of something, she knew not what, but of something mystic, intangible, uncanny—and she repeated slowly: _When the eighth Henry fair Marshfielden’s monastery took, Its priory as a palace, its vast income to his privy purse,— The outcast prior solemnly, by candle, bell and book Upon this place for ever laid this interdict and curse_: _From now until the end of time, Whene’er a stranger come Unto Marshfielden’s pleasaunces, To make therein his home, Troubles—disease—misfortunes—death— Upon the spot shall fall. So—an’ Marshfielden folks ye’d swell With fair prosperity, and safely dwell, All strangers from your gates expel, And live cut off from all._ The vicar laughed. “Yes, it’s a pretty legend, Mrs. Slater, but remember this is the twentieth century, and nothing is likely to happen to Marshfielden, its inhabitants or its visitors, because of that. Why, I was a stranger when I came, yet nothing very terrible has happened to me during these last forty years.” “Ah, sir, you don’t count. I mean, sir, you belong to the Priory; you are our priest. You wouldn’t come under the ‘Curse’ sir.” “And neither will any one else, Mrs. Slater. It’s a stupid legend.—Have no fear.” “But,” began Mrs. Slater. “How do you account for the case of—” But Mr. Winthrop lifted up a deprecatory hand. “I cannot listen to any more, Mrs. Slater.” And a note of authority came into his voice. “Why, all this is against the religion I preach to you—never listen to tales of superstition. Have no fear, do the best you can for the two young gentlemen, and I think I can promise you that no harm will come to them or you.” The woman shook her head, and disbelief shone in her eyes. The vicar saw it, and smiled again. “Well, well! It remains to be proved that I am right,” said he. “It remains to be proved, _which_ of us is right, sir.” “Very well, we’ll leave it at that. When do they arrive?” “About six this evening, sir; the usual time when the men come home.” “I will call in this evening then, and welcome them. Good-bye, Mrs. Slater, and don’t go listening to or spreading idle gossip!” And the kindly old man went away down the street. That evening, when the bell rang to denote the return of the men-folk, every door was occupied by an eager face, anxious not only to catch sight of the two strangers, but also to take another look at the woman who had dared to defy the “Marshfielden Curse.”