One night, however, feeling very tired and unable to sleep because of the noise, I was furious and decided to see for myself what my relations were up to. I slipped on my dressing-gown and slippers and made for my door; but not before the handle was turned violently and, although in total darkness, I could feel a current of air from the open door (I always locked it before retiring). Then a tremendous “Force” seemed to be pushing me backwards towards the bed, where, conscious of another “presence” in the room, I fell back exhausted. My brother and sister-in-law listened attentively to the recital of the previous night’s happenings, expressed their regret for so disturbed a night, and advised me to forget all about it. Not a little chagrined at their reticence, I resolved to return home at once. On the way to the station, I met the clergyman—a very intellectual man—who happened to be a frequent visitor at the house. I related the midnight happenings, my surmise, and, lastly, the unaccountable experience of the previous night. I quite expected him to pooh-pooh the whole thing. Instead, he looked very grave, said that in olden times the surrounding hills were infested by a band of particularly murderous brigands who made that house their occasional headquarters. Men were decoyed, robbed and disposed of within its gates. “And,” he ended, “we can but pray and hope that the poor, unquiet spirits may be granted a final resting-place. Do not, my child, make it a subject of idle gossip.” A School Teacher's Story SOME years ago, I, along with a sister ten years older than myself, was teaching in a Midland town. We had the greatest difficulty in obtaining rooms, no one seemed to want lady teachers. At last we succeeded, but not to our liking, as the house was old and gloomy and the landlady of a very saturnine countenance. We found she and her daughter were the only other occupants of the house. As it was winter time, we asked if she had an attic where we could store our bikes. We were told that there was no attic. We were nightly disturbed by strange sounds as of someone going up and down stairs and raking the fire—this, after the landlady and her daughter had retired hours before. When questioned, the landlady only replied that the house was old and creaky. I was eighteen and full of ghosts, but my sister was of the cool unimaginative kind and not in the least nervy. She was constantly reassuring me that everything was all right, but I knew she thought different, as she never left me alone, and we always went up stairs together, even in the day time. Our bedroom looked out on to the river, and the Midland railway ran between. A chest of drawers stood in one corner, and one of the drawers was full of papers, which the landlady informed us were left by a previous boarder who had occupied our rooms, and promised to return for them. Several were legal-looking documents, and the rest a mass of old correspondence.