Dan walked about for an hour or more, talking in this way to himself.  The squirrels frisked and barked all around him, but he did not seem to hear them.  He was so busy thinking over his troubles that he scarcely knew where he was going, until at last he found himself standing on the banks of a sluggish bayou that ran through the swamp.  The stream was wide and deep, and near the middle of it and opposite the spot where Dan stood, was a little island thickly covered with briers and cane.  It was known among the settlers as Bruin’s Island.  Dan knew the place well.  Many a fine string of goggle-eyes had he caught at the foot of the huge sycamore which grew at the lower end of the island, and leaned over the water until its long branches almost touched the trees on the main shore, and it was here that he had trapped his first beaver.  More than that, the island had been a place of refuge for his father during the war.  He retreated to it on the night the levee was blown up by the Union soldiers, and spent the most of his time there until all danger of capture was past.

When Dan appeared upon the bank of the bayou a dark object, which was crouching at the water’s edge near the foot of the sycamore, suddenly sprang up and glided into the bushes out of sight.  Its movements were quick and noiseless, but still they did not escape the notice of Dan, who dropped on the instant and hid behind a fallen log that happened to be close at hand.  He did not have time to take a good look at the object, but he saw enough of it to frighten him thoroughly.  He thrust his cocked rifle cautiously over the log, directing the muzzle toward the sycamore, but his hand was unsteady and his face was as white as a sheet.

“Looked to me like a man,” thought Dan, trembling in every limb, “but in course it couldn’t be; so it’s one of them haunts what lives in the General’s lane.”

Dan kept his gaze directed across the bayou, and could scarcely restrain himself from jumping up and taking to his heels when he saw a head, covered with a torn and faded hat, raised slowly and cautiously above the leaning trunk of the sycamore.  It remained motionless for a moment and Dan’s eyes were sharp enough to see that there was a face below the hat—­a tanned and weather-beaten face, the lower portion of which was concealed by thick, bushy whiskers.  As Dan looked his eyes began to dilate, his mouth came open, and the butt of his rifle was gradually lowered until the muzzle pointed toward the clouds.  He was sure he saw something familiar about the face, but the sight of it was most unexpected, and so was the sound of the voice which reached his ears a moment later.

“Dannie!” came the hail, in subdued tones, as if the speaker were afraid of being overheard by some one besides the boy whom he was addressing.

“Pap!” cried Dan.

[Illustration:  Dan Recognizes his Father.]

As he spoke he arose from his concealment, and the man on the other side of the bayou—­Dan was pretty certain now that it was a man—­stepped out into view, disclosing the well-known form and features of Godfrey Evans.  Dan could hardly believe his eyes, and even Godfrey seemed a little doubtful.