“I’m afraid Mrs. Slater omitted to give us any message from you” said Alan “In fact we didn’t even know you had called” “I am the vicar of Marshfielden” said the kindly old man “and I should have liked to give you a personal welcome. You see the ‘Curse’ has made your position here somewhat strained” The two boys stared at each other in perplexity. The vicar laughed. “None of the women have been frightening you with their child’s stories yet?” “No!” said both boys together, “what is it?” “Oh, there’s a legend connected with this place, that any strangers in Marshfielden will bring disaster on themselves and perhaps on the place, if they take up their abode here” “Why?” “A curse was laid on the place by a monk in Henry the Eighth’s time, when the Priory here was dismantled” “Oh, is that all?” said Alan lightly “We are not afraid of old wives’ tales like that!” But Molly Murlock, who was in the kitchen with Mary Slater, heard the words, and her brow clouded. Drawing her child closer, she muttered as she said good night to Mary— “‘Curse’ or no ‘Curse,’ I’d rather be dead, than live to see strangers come here” CHAPTER II THE CURSE The two men had now been working for three months at the mine, and the villagers had become used to the sight of strangers in Marshfielden. Indeed, as the weeks sped by, and nothing uncanny happened, they began gradually to forget the “Curse” in connection with the two young Forsyths. Summer was now waning. Leaves were beginning to fall and folks were making preparations for a hard winter. Mr. Winthrop was still going round on his kindly errands and had become sincerely attached to the two youths who had taken up their residence so near him. Indeed, there was no one else in the village to whom they could go for social intercourse, and nearly every evening Mrs. Skeet’s little parlour was full of the smoke and chatter of the vicar and his two young friends. It was now the first Tuesday in October, and the evenings were growing chilly. Mrs. Skeet had lighted a nice fire, and they all sat round it enjoying the warmth of its glow. People outside, passing by, heard the sound of merry laughter, and Mr. Winthrop’s characteristic chuckle, and smiled with him. But Moll Murlock passed the cottage hurriedly and drew her shawl closer round her shoulders, while a slight moan came from between her tightly compressed lips. Of all the inhabitants of Marshfielden, there was one still who had _not_ forgotten the “Curse.” “Well, boys,” said Mr. Winthrop, “I suppose you feel used to your life among us now?” “Yes,” answered Alan. “It seems almost like home to us.” “We’ve never had a proper home,” broke in Desmond.