“Buttons again, Mrs. Jones;” or

“D’ye see that?” or

“Here’s the old story”—­

Always said laughingly, and varied as to the mood or fertility of fancy.  But on so grave a subject as shirt buttons, Mrs. Jones had no heart for a joke.  The fact that her vigilance had proved all in vain, and that, spite of constant care, a shirt had found its way into my drawer, lacking its full complement of buttons, was something too serious for a smile or a jest, and my words, no matter how lightly spoken, would be felt as a reproof.  Any allusion, therefore, to shirt buttons, was sure to produce a cloud upon the otherwise calm brow of Mrs. Jones.  It was a sore subject, and could not be touched even by the light end of a feather without producing pain.

What was I to do?  Put off with the lack of a shirt button uncomplainingly?  Pin my collar, if the little circular piece of bone or ivory were gone, and not hint at the omission?  Yes; I resolved not to say a word more about shirt buttons, but to bear the evil, whenever it occurred, with the patience of a martyr.  Many days had not passed after this resolution was taken, before, on changing my linen one morning, I found that there was a button less than the usual number on the bosom of my shirt.  Mrs. Jones had been up on the evening before, half an hour after I was in bed, looking over my shirts, to see if every thing was in order.  But even her sharp eyes had failed to discover the place left vacant by a deserting member of the shirt button fraternity.  I knew she had done her best, and I pitied, rather than blamed her, for I was sensible that a knowledge of the fact which had just come to light would trouble her a thousand times more than it did me.

The breakfast hour passed without a discovery by Mrs. Jones of the fact that there was a button off of the bosom of my shirt.  But, when I came in at dinner time, her first words, looking at me, were:  “Why, Mr. Jones, there’s a button off your bosom.”

“I know,” said I, indifferently.  “It was off when I put the shirt on this morning.  But it makes no difference—­you can sew it on when the shirt next comes from the wash.”

I was really sincere in what I said, and took some merit to myself for being as composed as I was on so agitating subject.  Judge of my surprise, then, to hear Mrs. Jones exclaim, with a flushed face, “Indeed, Mr. Jones, this is too much! no difference, indeed?  A nice opinion people must have had of your wife, to see you going about with your bosom all gaping open in that style?”

“Nobody noticed it,” said I in reply.  “Don’t you see that the edges lie perfectly smooth together, as much so as if held by a button?”

But it was no use to say anything; Mrs. Jones was hurt at my not speaking of the button.

“I’m sure,” she said, “that I am always ready to do anything for you.  I never complain about sewing on your buttons.”

“Nonsense, Mrs. Jones! don’t take it so much to heart,” I replied; “here, get your needle and thread, and you can have it all right in a minute.  It’s but a trifle—­I’m sure I havn’t thought about it since I put on the shirt this morning.”