A FEW years ago, when I was studying for my degree in a university college, my friends and I had a strange experience. The women's hostel in which we lived, had formerly been a gentleman's house, and it was rumoured that at times this country squire, who was now dead, used to revisit his old home. Most of us laughed at this as a “ghost tale,” but the following incident made even the most sceptical wonder. One night, my friend and I, who shared a room, went to bed as usual. After putting out the light, we pulled up the blind. This was a regular habit of ours, so that we should wake up easily in the morning. About 2 a.m. I awoke, and found, to my astonishment, the electric light switched on, and the blind down. I awakened my friend, and asked her if she was responsible, but she had been asleep the whole time. Neither of us had ever walked in our sleep, so, feeling that something uncanny had happened, we got up to investigate. Listening intently, we heard weird noises on the floor below, a sort of rattling and scraping. This continued for some time, and then gradually grew fainter and died away. Feeling very nervous, we sat waiting for the sounds to return, but nothing more happened, and we were glad when morning came. At breakfast, we reported the night’s happenings. When we had finished, a “fresher” spoke up—one who knew nothing of the hostel legend. She said that during the night, a gentleman had stood by her bed and smiled kindly at her. We eagerly questioned her, and she was able to tell us exactly what he was wearing. When she had finished, our Warden exclaimed: “Why, that was old Mr. C., the late owner of this house; the last time I saw him he was dressed like that!” Was the same old gentleman responsible for turning on our light, and for the other strange happenings of that night? READING WHILST living at a “school house” in a lonely country district, where my father was a schoolmaster, I was startled one day, when sitting in my bedroom reading, by someone walking upstairs as though with a stick. I rushed out and, on finding no one, I ran downstairs to ascertain whether the rest of the family had heard the same noise. Everyone paid “No!” A few months afterwards, my mother happened to be ill, and a maid, who had lived in the same house when it was occupied by a former schoolmaster, came to live with us. One afternoon, while the rest of us were out, mother asked this maid to sit upstairs with her, and, strange though it may seem, they were both startled by the same noise as I had heard months before—someone walking upstairs with a stick. “Oh, it’s quite all right,” said the maid, “that's only Miss S., who died here a few years ago; she was troubled with fits and always walked with a stick.” Funnily enough, this girl said that Miss S. used to place the stick on the landing on top of the stairs before walking to her bedroom, which she did (if it really was her “ghost”) on those two occasions. SUTTON SCOTNEY