Then came a day when Grace detected an unfamiliar and unpleasing odor in the house. She suspected the napkins, then the tablecloth, and examined the rug under the dining-room table for possible spots of butter. Next she inspected the kitchen, which she washed and scoured industriously for a full day. Occasionally she detected the same odor in the store, as if she had carried it with her from the house, so she examined her dresses minutely, for the odor was reminiscent of cookery of some kind, although she had but a single dress for kitchen wear, and never wore it out of the house. She mentioned the odor to Philip, but he was unable to detect it in the air. One day it inflicted itself upon her even in church, and became so obnoxious that she spoke of it, instead of the sermon, as soon as the congregation was dismissed. "I'm very sorry, dear girl, that you're so tormented," said Philip. "I wish I could identify the nuisance; then possibly I could find means to abate it. I know an odor is hard to describe, but do try to give me some clew to it." "It reminds me somewhat of stale butter," Grace replied slowly, "and of some kinds of greasy pans, and of burned meat, and of parts of some tenement-house streets in the city, and some ash-cans on city sidewalks on hot summer mornings--oh, those days!--and of--I don't know what else." "You've already named enough to show that 'tis truly disgusting and dreadful, and I do wish you and I could exchange the one of the five senses which is affected by it, for I never had much sense of smell." By this time they were at home. Philip was unclasping his wife's cloak when Grace exclaimed suddenly:-- "There it is!" "There what is?" "That dreadful odor! Why, Phil, 'tis on your coat-sleeve! What, in the name of all that's mysterious--" "That was my best coat in the city last winter, and I've never worn it here, except on Sundays." "Then it must have taken the odor from some other garment in your closet." Philip hurriedly brought his ordinary weekday coat to the sitting room, Grace moved it slowly, suspiciously, toward her nose, and soon exclaimed:-- "There it is--ugh! But what can it be?" At that instant a well-known knock at the door announced Caleb, who had been invited to Sunday dinner. "Don't be shocked, Caleb," said Philip; "we're not mending clothes on Sunday. 'Twill scarcely be an appetizer, apparently, but won't you pass this coat to and fro before your face a moment, and detect an odor, if you can, and tell us what it is?" Caleb took the coat, did as requested, touched the cloth with his nose, and replied:-- "The pork-house." "What do you mean?" Philip asked, while Grace turned pale.