"A button off, as usual!" I muttered to myself the next morning, as
I put on a clean shirt. Mrs. Jones had risen half an hour before me,
and was down stairs giving some directions about breakfast, so that
I could not ask to have it sewed on.

And after leaving my room, I thought it as well not to say any thing
about it. In due time we gathered with our friends around the
breakfast table. A sight of them reminded me of the conversation the
previous evening, and I felt an irresistible desire to allude to the
missing shirt button as quite an apropos and amusing incident. So,
speaking from the impulse of the moment, I said, glancing first at
Mrs. Jones, then around the table, and then pointing down at my
bosom, "The old story of shirt buttons again!"

Instantly the color mounted to the cheeks and brow of Mrs. Jones;
then the color as quickly melted away, and a look of triumph passed
over her face. She pushed back her chair quickly, and rising up,
came round to where I sat, took hold of the button I had failed to
see, and holding it between her fingers, said, "Oh, yes, this _is_
the old story, Mr. Jones!"

I drew down my chin so as to get a low angle of vision, and sure
enough, the button was there. A burst of laughter went around the
table, in which Mrs. Jones most heartily joined; and I laughed, too,
as glad as she was, that the joke was all on her side. I have never,
you may be sure, heard the last of this; but it was a lucky
incident, for it has given Mrs. Jones something to fall back upon,
and have her jest occasionally, whenever I happen to discover that a
button is among the missing, and that she can, even at times, find