“What was that?” whispered Marie.

“Some one is hurt!” murmured Natalie.

Mrs. Bonnell began a search for her useful little ammonia gun, but found she had left it in camp.

“Where was that noise, fellows?” demanded practical Jack. Before any of them could answer him the groan sounded again, louder than before. With a bound Marie was out of the door narrowly missing a fall on the rickety steps. Mabel followed, but Natalie and Alice stood their ground, perhaps because Mrs. Bonnell had grasped each of them by an arm.

“Don’t be silly,” exclaimed Phil. “Probably it’s only a tramp who’s talking in his sleep.”

“A tramp!” gasped Natalie.

“Come out of here!” demanded Alice, getting, ready for a retreat.

“It was upstairs,” said Blake, indicating a flight of rotting steps. “Some one is up there.”

Again the groan sounded, and there was no mistaking it. It did come from above their heads. Then a voice called:

“Is any one there? Help me! I’ve had a fall!”

“It’s old man Hanson!” exclaimed Jack. “He’s up there. Come on, boys!”

He sprang forward. Blake called after him:

“Be careful of those stairs. They look as if they’d come down if you blew on ’em.”

“If they held him to go up, they’ll stand for me,” declared Jack. “Come on!”

“Let’s go outside,” suggested Mrs. Bonnell. “If you need us, boys, you can call us,” she added. “If he is hurt, I know something about first-aid work.”

“We’ll call you if we need you,” replied Blake. “Now let’s have a look.”

Cautiously they went up the shaky stairs, one at a time so as not to put too much of a strain on them. At first it was so dark in the second story that they could see nothing. Then Jack called:

“What’s the matter? Who is it? Are you hurt?”

“It’s me—Hanson Rossmore,” was the halting answer. “I tripped in a hole and sprained my ankle I guess. Can you help me down?”

“I guess so,” answered Jack. “Let’s get a little light on the subject though,” and he opened one of the old solid-wood shutters, that covered the glassless window.

They saw the old hermit, for such he was, lying in the corner of what had evidently been a storeroom of the old mill. He seemed in pain, and one leg was doubled under him.

“How did it happen?” asked Jack, as the boys raised him up.

“Ouch! Oh, my!” he cried, as the weight came on the injured foot. “I can’t step on it.”

“Wait, I’ll get you a stick,” volunteered Blake, hurrying outside.

“Is he—is he dead?” asked Mabel.

“Dead! And him groaning the way he did? Not much!” cried the lad. “It’s only a sprained ankle or something like that. We’ll get him to his shack and he’ll be all right.”

“Poor old man,” murmured Natalie.

With the help of the improvised cane, and with a lad on either side of him, they managed to get Old Hanson down the stairs, though they were in fear lest every step would bring the whole flight down about them, so rickety was it.

“What were you doing up there?” asked Blake, as they led him out of the door, and toward his own little shack.

“Oh, just looking around—looking around,” he murmured. “I used to work in this mill when I was a boy, and it has memories for me—memories—yes memories. Some happy and some sad. I’m an old man!”

They got him to his hut, and then took off his shoe. His left ankle was much swollen, though it appeared to be more of a cut than a sprain that had caused the injury. Under the direction of Mrs. Bonnell they bandaged it with rags they found, wringing them out of hot water, for Blake made a fire in the old stove.

“It’s kind of you—right kind—to bother with an old hulk like me,” went on Old Hanson. “That feels a lot better. I had a daughter once,” he said, looking fixedly at Natalie. “She was like you, in a way. That’s why I was so startled by your face the first time I saw you. But she’s gone—gone.”

“Where?” asked Jack.

“How should I know?” came the rather angry retort. “I don’t know. I only go up in the old mill when I want to think about her. I was there to-day. I stepped in a hole—the old mill is falling apart, just as I am—it’s getting old like me, only I’ll never be as old as that.

“It’s older than the Indians. The Indians were here once. They killed some settlers in the mill. Sometimes in the night I hear cries—cries of——”

“That’ll do!” interrupted Blake a bit sternly, seeing that the old chap was getting on the nerves of the girls who stood outside the shack. “You’ll work into a fever if you’re not care............