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;