He said the house had been untenanted for some years because the room I slept in was reported to be haunted. A woman had either fallen or thrown herself from the window and had been killed, and she was said to lean over the bed. My brother utterly disbelieved the tale, and forgot it. Had he mentioned it to me I should have laughed at it and gone to bed in that room without a tremor. Those are the facts. I cannot explain them, but in Hudson's Psychic Phenomena” there is a very possible explanation of such apparitions. The Hooded Lady MY father was a Nonconformist minister. In the autumn of 18— he went to reside in the country town of W——, which has the distinction of possessing a large county gaol. Going down, as a schoolgirl, to spend my first Christmas holidays there, I was astonished to find such a palatial “manse.” It was situated a mile out of the town, had a square turreted tower, an old moat (then the channel for a running stream), an encircling verandah, stabling for four horses, and a long carriage drive, at the gates of which was an old, ivy-covered, uninhabited lodge—an altogether unusual dwelling for its modest tenant! The only room in the turreted tower was occupied by my father as his “study,” but he rarely made his sermons in it, we children observed, and when asked why, he would reply evasively that he always felt chilly and uncomfortable there. On the night of Christmas Eve, I was restless and fidgety. A younger sister occupied another bed in the same room, but she soon dropped off to sleep. It was a moonlight night, so I drew up my blind and lay watching the fitful shadows of a tree outside as they played over my walls. At last I had an uncanny feeling that another presence was added to the occupants of the large old bedroom. I looked towards the door and saw a dark figure gliding through it, apparently in a cloak, the hood of which encircled the small white face of a woman. I sprang up frightened. The dark figure walked slowly towards me, then deviated to the window, and, without opening it, went through to the verandah. I ran across to my sister's bed, thinking she was playing a trick on me, but, no, she lay there fast asleep. I had no sleep that night, you may be sure. On telling my story at the breakfast-table next morning, I was merely told that I had been reading too many Christmas ghost stories and had doubtless had a bad nightmare. Though hardly convinced, I dropped the subject. A few weeks later my father sent me with a note to the office of a solicitor in the town, an elderly man who was deeply versed in all the topographical, historical and social knowledge of the place. He was a Celt, and the custodian of half the human secrets of the district, which may or may not bear on the rest of my story. As I was leaving, he asked in a friendly fashion: “How do you like the manse?” Taken aback somewhat, I replied: “Oh, very much, but—er—” His spectacled, curious eyes seemed seeking some private confidence.