The young wife greeted her husband tearfully on his return from the day's work.
"Oh, Willie, darling," she gasped, "I have been so insulted!"
"Insulted!" Willie exclaimed wrathfully. "Insulted by whom?"
"By your mother!" the wife declared, and sobbed aloud.
The husband was aghast, but inclined to be skeptical.
"By my mother, Ella? Why, dearest, that's nonsense. She's a hundred miles away."
"But she did," the wife insisted. "A letter came to you this morning, and it was addressed in your mother's writing, so, of course, I opened it."
"Oh, yes, of course," Willie agreed, without any enthusiasm.
"And it was written to you all the whole way through, every word of it, except----"
"Except what?"
"Except the postscript," the wife flared. "That was the insult--that was to me." The tears flowed again. "It said: 'P. S.--Dear Ella, don't fail to give this letter to Willie. I want him to read it.'"
