"Yes," he says, short.
I went on, never noticing: "I dunno whether you've took it in, but there seems to be something wrong with her."
"Wrong with her?" he says.
"Yes, sir," I says. "And I dunno but awfully wrong. I've been noticing lately." (I didn't say how lately.)
"What do you mean?" says he, and sat down on the bottom step.
"Don't you see," I says, "that she don't look well? She don't act no more like herself than I do. She hasn't," says I, truthful, "half the spirit to her to-day that she had when you first came here to the village."
"Why—no," he says, "I hadn't noticed—"
"You wouldn't," says I. "You wouldn't be likely to. But it seems to me that you ought to be warned—and be on your guard."
"Warned!" he says, and I saw him get pale—I tell you I saw him get pale.
"I'm not easy alarmed," I told him. "And when I see anything serious, it ain't in my power to stand aside and not say anything."