“Oh, now, Miss Green! do you think it's safe to put that cold stuff into your stomick?” said the Widow Leech to a young married lady, who, finding the air rather warm, thought a little ice would cool her down very nicely. “It's jest like eatin' snowballs. You don't look very rugged; and I should be dreadful afeard, if I was you.” “Carrie,” said old Dr. Kittredge, who had overheard this,--“how well you're looking this evening! But you must be tired and heated;--sit down here, and let me give you a good slice of ice-cream. How you young folks do grow up, to be sure! I don't feel quite certain whether it's you or your older sister, but I know it 's somebody I call Carrie, and that I 've known ever since.” A sound something between a howl and an oath startled the company and broke off the Doctor's sentence. Everybody's eyes turned in the direction from which it came. A group instantly gathered round the person who had uttered it, who was no other than Deacon Soper. “He's chokin'! he's chokin'!” was the first exclamation,--“slap him on the back!” Several heavy fists beat such a tattoo on his spine that the Deacon felt as if at least one of his vertebrae would come up. “He's black in the face,” said Widow Leech, “he 's swallered somethin' the wrong way. Where's the Doctor?--let the Doctor get to him, can't ye?” “If you will move, my good lady, perhaps I can,” said Doctor Kittredge, in a calm tone of voice. “He's not choking, my friends,” the Doctor added immediately, when he got sight of him. “It 's apoplexy,--I told you so,--don't you see how red he is in the face?” said old Mrs. Peake, a famous woman for “nussin” sick folks, --determined to be a little ahead of the Doctor. “It's not apoplexy,” said Dr. Kittredge. “What is it, Doctor? what is it? Will he die? Is he dead?--Here's his poor wife, the Widow Soper that is to be, if she a'n't a'ready.” “Do be quiet, my good woman,” said Dr. Kittredge.--“Nothing serious, I think, Mrs. Soper. Deacon!” The sudden attack of Deacon Soper had begun with the extraordinary sound mentioned above. His features had immediately assumed an expression of intense pain, his eyes staring wildly, and, clapping his hands to his face, he had rocked his head backward and forward in speechless agony. At the Doctor's sharp appeal the Deacon lifted his head. “It's all right,” said the Doctor, as soon as he saw his face. “The Deacon had a smart attack of neuralgic pain. That 's all. Very severe, but not at all dangerous.”