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.