"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