GHOSTS, I personally do not believe in, but this is perfectly true. During the war, I was stationed for a short period at an empty convalescent camp, bordering the sea on the French coast. Our duty was to guard this, and, at night, we were a double guard—one held the main entrance, the other paraded the whole camp—a most desolate and wild affair amongst sand dunes and fir trees. My duty fell for this roving commission, and, wandering around, I felt compelled to enter the wood, and gaze at the camp from outside. The night was fair, with a moon casting long shadows, and, imagine my astonishment to behold a most weird apparition gliding effortless before me. I was struck dumb with surprise mingled with fear, but, remembering my loaded rifle and bayonet, I pulled myself together and investigated. It appeared to vanish, and, to my great surprise, straight through one of the hospitals. I searched, but in vain, and saw nothing more. Whether I was wrong, whether I saw something, I know not to this day. THE WOMAN BY THE GRAVE THIS is an account of my experience whilst in Germany as a prisoner of war in 1914, at Sennelager, near Paderborn. I was captured at Mons, on Sunday, August 23rd, 1914. I belonged to the 2nd Battalion, Royal Irish Regiment, and one of my comrades died from exposure early in October of that year. Volunteers were asked to attend his funeral, and of these I was one. The place where he was buried was a wild, desolate moor. The morning of the funeral was very cold and sleet was falling. We were a very miserable crowd as we stood by the graveside whilst the English chaplain read the Burial Service over our dead comrade. Suddenly, there stood with us a woman who remained until the service was over. There is nothing strange in that you will think, but the point is that none of us saw her until she stood with us and none saw her go. Our comrade was a married man, and what we all want to know is have we ever seen a ghost? P.S.—We received a letter from his widow some months after, dated before his death, imploring him for God's sake to write to her. She had a child very ill in St. Thomas's Hospital. MANSFIELD In November, 1916, my son, eighteen and a half years old, went to the war, being sent out to France. The scene I wish to relate happened a week before the Easter of 1917. It was a Friday. I spent a most miserable, uneasy day. When dad came home at tea-time I was nearly frantic. However, he assured me all was well, and, retiring about eleven o'clock, I put the bedclothes over my shoulders expecting to sleep, when three sharp jerks pulled the clothes right off my shoulder. This was repeated twice. The third time, I tucked them under my arm and held them tight and waited to find out the cause. Then my son walked into the bedroom and came up to me. He was in uniform, excepting cap. His left hand was in his pocket. With the other he snatched my hand, gripped it twice and shouted, “Mother, Mother!”