Layton then detailed some particulars of his surgical practice which it is not necessary to repeat.  He continued—­

“I bound up his throat with my handkerchief, and took him neck and heels, and threw him into the bottom of the boat.  Presently he came to himself a little, and sat up in the boat; and—­would you believe it?—­made several attempts to throw himself in the water.  ’This will not do,’ says I; ’you’ve done mischief enough already by cutting your weasand!  If you dare to try that again, I will kill you with the oar.’  I held it up to threaten him; he was scared, and lay down as quiet as a lamb.  I put my foot upon his breast.  ’Lie still, now! or you’ll catch it.’  He looked piteously at me; he could not speak, but his eyes seemed to say, ‘Have pity upon me, Ned; don’t kill me.’

“Yes, ma’am; this man, who had just cut his throat, and twice arter that tried to drown himself, was afraid that I should knock him on the head and kill him.  Ha! ha!  I shall never forget the work that F—–­ and I had with him arter I got him up to the house.

“The doctor came, and sewed up his throat; and his wife—­poor crittur!—­came to nurse him.  Bad as he was, she was mortal fond of him!  He lay there, sick and unable to leave his bed, for three months, and did nothing but pray to God to forgive him, for he thought the devil would surely have him for cutting his own throat; and when he got about again, which is now twelve years ago, he left off drinking entirely, and wanders about the woods with his dogs, hunting.  He seldom speaks to any one, and his wife’s brother carries on the farm for the family.  He is so shy of strangers that ’tis a wonder he came in here.  The old wives are afraid of him; but you need not heed him—­his troubles are to himself, he harms no one.”

Layton departed, and left me brooding over the sad tale which he had told in such an absurd and jesting manner.  It was evident from the account he had given of Brian’s attempt at suicide, that the hapless hunter was not wholly answerable for his conduct—­that he was a harmless maniac.

The next morning, at the very same hour, Brian again made his appearance; but instead of the rifle across his shoulder, a large stone jar occupied the place, suspended by a stout leather thong.  Without saying a word, but with a truly benevolent smile, that flitted slowly over his stern features, and lighted them up, like a sunbeam breaking from beneath a stormy cloud, he advanced to the table, and unslinging the jar, set it down before me, and in a low and gruff, but by no means an unfriendly voice, said, “Milk, for the child,” and vanished.

“How good it was of him!  How kind!” I exclaimed, as I poured the precious gift of four quarts of pure new milk out into a deep pan.  I had not asked him—­had never said that the poor weanling wanted milk.  It was the courtesy of a gentleman—­of a man of benevolence and refinement.

For weeks did my strange, silent friend steal in, take up the empty jar, and supply its place with another replenished with milk.  The baby knew his step, and would hold out her hands to him and cry, “Milk!” and Brian would stoop down and kiss her, and his two great dogs lick her face.