ST. LOUIS, Mo. - Standing at the end of the procession of a hundred or so master's degree students, Stanley Mills felt funny in his black crepe gown with its long, swooping and closed sleeves and the mortarboard on his head.

He hadn't expected to be here - at this precommencement ceremony for the St. Louis University graduate school - in this weird costume. He certainly didn't expect the V.I.P. treatment: interviews, a luncheon in his honor and the reactions of school officials who seem as excited as he is.

"Who am I," he asked, with a hint of native New Yorker in his voice, "to get all of this attention?"

Well, you see, Mills is 84. When he walked across the stage Thursday, he was declared the oldest known graduate of the school.

But the story gets even better.

Mills started his master's degree in philosophy in 1950. He had finished everything but his thesis when he ran out of money. He finally finished the degree last winter.

Stanley Mills first came to St. Louis soon after World War II, in which he flew 35 combat missions in Europe as a bombardier navigator. Once at SLU, he pored over the works of St. Thomas Aquinas, whose answers to life's complex questions he found enlightening. But real-life complexities took over.

He got a job and moved to Chicago. He returned to St. Louis for a while and tried to finish his degree as he taught high school, but it never worked out. He wound up as a federal immigration officer at John F. Kennedy International Airport. He retired in 1983.

Mills decided to move someplace where he didn't have to shovel snow off his car. Florida was too hot and buggy; California, too expensive. He settled on Sun City, Ariz.

That's where he lives today, when he's not traveling in Mexico or looking up distant relatives in Poland or getting a degree in St. Louis. He spends his days lawn-bowling, going to lectures through his computer club, reading in the library and having coffee with his friends.

He had long since given up hope of finishing his degree, thinking too much time had passed. But in 1998 he saw a New York Times article about another octogenarian - a retired judge - who decided to finished his master's in history at the age of 89. Mills clipped the article.

Mills began to think about returning to St. Louis and living with his brother as he completed the work. But his brother died of cancer, and Mills thought that was the end of his dream. Living in a dorm wasn't an appealing option.

Then, in November, he met Carol Servino at a retreat at a Benedictine monastery in Oregon.

They chatted and he began to talk about St. Thomas Aquinas, who is the patron saint of Roman Catholic schools. She pumped him for more information and pieced together his story. She was moved.

"I had this strong feeling I was supposed to do something," she said.

She wondered if she were crazy, or being too intrusive, but she decided to write a letter to SLU anyway to see if the school could help Mills find affordable housing or some other way to finish his degree.

"Stan Mills did not ask me to write this letter, nor does he know that I'm sending it," she wrote. "Perhaps I am a dreamer, but I think there is a heart-warming human-interest story waiting to be told as SLU works with this wonderful man to make his dream come true. I'm picturing Oprah telling the story."

The letter captured the imagination and hearts of SLU administrators. They called Mills in January with an offer: If he wrote a 10-page paper on St. Thomas Aquinas, they'd waive the costs of three credit hours and would grant him his degree.

Astonished, Mills got to work. He dug up his files with his old papers and thesis notes from 50 years ago. But it wasn't too hard to refresh his memory: He had remained a lifelong student of St. Thomas, reading from his works sometimes as often as three times a week.

"It took me most of January to write it. I worked at it day after day and night after night," Mills said. "If you can't fall asleep one night, give me a call and I can let you read it."

In February, Mills heard back that his paper had been approved - and was pretty good.

The Rev. Theodore Vitali, chairman of the philosophy department, wrote, "I am not only proud of what you have done, I am also reassured that after many years away from formal studies, a person (perhaps someday myself) can pick up a difficult text and write an analytic paper. You give me hope."

After every other master's student name had been called, Donald Brennan, dean of the graduate school, asked Mills to come up on the stage. The audience came to its feet.

"Wait till you hear the whole story," Brennan said.

As Brennan related Mills' tale to the audience, Mills fidgeted, waved and smiled at friendly faces in the crowd.

Then Brennan said, "I look forward to receiving your application for our doctoral program. Why stop now?"

Everyone laughed.

Mills, too.