“And the curse? What was it?” breathed the young girl eagerly.
“I’ll get the book and show you,” answered Katharine, hobbling out of the room. When she tottered back with the antique volume, Lady Edith eagerly turned the musty, yellow pages. She looked eagerly at the date. It was more than a hundred years old—a book of traditions and stories of the great Chilton race.
“Oh, Kathie, you should have shown me this long ago,” she began, reproachfully, and just then her fascinated gaze lighted upon:
“The Minstrel’s Curse!
“The minstrel’s curse be on the love
Of all who bear the Chilton name
Long after he shall sleep in death,
Who, blameless, bore their blame.
A Chilton maiden ne’er shall love
A man of low degree,