“Well, it sounded like some one crying, or moaning, I couldn’t tell which. Then I heard what seemed like some one tramping around in the room overhead.” “Rats!” exclaimed Jack with such suddenness that all the girls jumped, and Marie screamed. “I think they were pigeons,” went on Natalie, “and what sounded like moaning was the cooing. When I had reasoned that out I felt better. Then I called for help again, and no one answered for ever so long.” “You poor child,” murmured Mrs. Bonnell. “Did some one finally come?” “Yes; Reuben did.” “Good boy for you, Reuben!” exclaimed Blake, who stood near the farm lad. “I’ll make it all right with you.” “Huh! I didn’t do it for pay!” he protested. “Of course not. You didn’t know that you were entertaining an angel unawares; did you?” Natalie was continuing her story. “Reuben answered me, after a bit,” she said. “I was never so glad to see any one in all my whole life as I was to see Reuben. I’ll never forget his kindness.” “’Twasn’t nothin’!” he protested. “Yes, it was!” insisted Natalie. “He came in, helped me to get up, and then, by leaning on his shoulder, I managed to get down to the lake. He had his boat there, and I got in that, as I thought I could rest better than in the canoe.” “We towed that back,” put in Reuben. “I tied it down on shore.” “And so here I am,” resumed Natalie. “Oh, I do hope I’m not going to be laid up.” “If those boys will leave I’ll attend to your sprain,” said Mrs. Bonnell significantly, and the young men took the hint and left. With the application of cloths alternately wrung out of hot and cold water, Natalie’s ankle was soon much easier. It was not a bad sprain, as sprains go, and the Guardian assured her she would be out again in a couple of days. Then Natalie had to tell the story all over again, with repetitions of certain parts, while, on their own behalf, the Camp Fire Girls related how they had instituted one search, and were about to start another when the missing one came back. As for the boys they could be heard discussing the affair in loud voices as the two parties went to their several camps. “I wonder what’s in that old mill, anyhow?” ventured Jack. “It must be something,” declared Blake. “I dare you fellows to come over with me and ‘lay the ghost,’ as they call it.” “I’ll go!” offered Phil. “It’s a long row, though, and it’s late.” “The lateness is so much the better,” declared Blake. “Ghosts never perambulate until near midnight, anyhow. How is it—will you fellows go?” “Not for ours,” declared Charlie Taylor, one of the crowd from the lower camp. “Maybe in the morning we might consider it. Anyhow, this is the closed season for ghosts.” “You’re afraid!” jeered Blake. “Now, don’t let’s think of tackling it to-night,” suggested Jack. “I’ll go there to-morrow with any one—or two.” “You can’t see ghosts in the day-time!” declared Blake, as if he were an authority on spirits.