I had barely got half-way through the incident upon the road when she sat back in her chair, and said in a quiet, almost matter-of-fact tone:-- “You’ve seen the headless woman, sir.” “The headless woman?” I asked, startled. “Who’s she?” “I may as well tell you,” she replied, “though we don’t talk of it much here. Have you noticed a wooden house painted white, and standing alone about a hundred yards this way from the stile on the Fambridge road?” I said that I had, and thought it was a farmhouse. “Well, so it was till the murder happened,” replied the woman. “The story goes that somewhere about forty years ago a farmer there took to drink, went mad, and murdered his wife. He didn’t stop at that, either, for he cut off her head and buried it, and it wasn’t found till some time after the body had had decent burial.” “So she’s supposed to haunt the place?” I asked. “There’s no suppose about it, sir,” she replied, very quietly; “a tidy few people here have seen her, much the same as you did. My husband has, too, by the stile leading into the churchyard. It took him a week in bed to get over it. Sometimes it’s just a face, and sometimes just a black bundle like a body without a head; but always near one of them two stiles, and round about harvest time. Heaven send I never see the sight!” she concluded, devoutly. “I’m not particularly anxious to renew the acquaintance myself,” I replied, “but how do you account for the lifting of my latch?” “Well, I can’t say for certain, sir, but, if my memory serves me, there was a gaffer living in your cottage--he’s dead now many a year--who used to work at the White House and was there when the murder happened. He saw her pretty often in his garden, I’m told, but couldn’t be got to speak of it. It may be she walks there too.” I spent a very mixed kind of night at the inn, and on the following day returned to Fambridge and less ghostly company. From here I made arrangements for a change of quarters, and from that day to this I have not set eyes upon Canewdon, nor have I any inclination to do so. This strange happening is perhaps too strange for everybody’s belief. My “spirituous” state at the time is an opinion largely held by chaffing friends; but I ask that three points be taken into consideration. I am practically a teetotaller; my imagination is no more abnormal than that of most of my fellows; and, lastly, no whisper of ghostly visitations in the village had reached my ears prior to the narrative as told by the landlady. The whole affair would make an interesting little piece of investigation for the Psychical Research Society. [Illustration: SOME SAVAGE PASTIMES.] BY E. WAY ELKINGTON, F.R.G.S. Savages, big and little, play games like other folk, and some of their methods of amusing themselves are very curious indeed. Mr. Elkington has made a collection of the least-known and most peculiar pastimes, and here describes and illustrates them.