He searched the faces of the children in detail, but could not decide which one it was.  Finally he gave it up with a sigh and said: 

“I thought I would know the little cub again but I don’t.”  Mr. Johnson said further, that Mr. Young observed that life was a sad, sad thing —­“because the joy of every new marriage a man contracted was so apt to be blighted by the inopportune funeral of a less recent bride.”  And Mr. Johnson said that while he and Mr. Young were pleasantly conversing in private, one of the Mrs. Youngs came in and demanded a breast-pin, remarking that she had found out that he had been giving a breast-pin to No. 6, and she, for one, did not propose to let this partiality go on without making a satisfactory amount of trouble about it.  Mr. Young reminded her that there was a stranger present.  Mrs. Young said that if the state of things inside the house was not agreeable to the stranger, he could find room outside.  Mr. Young promised the breast-pin, and she went away.  But in a minute or two another Mrs. Young came in and demanded a breast-pin.  Mr. Young began a remonstrance, but Mrs. Young cut him short.  She said No. 6 had got one, and No. 11 was promised one, and it was “no use for him to try to impose on her—­she hoped she knew her rights.”  He gave his promise, and she went.  And presently three Mrs. Youngs entered in a body and opened on their husband a tempest of tears, abuse, and entreaty.  They had heard all about No. 6, No. 11, and No. 14.  Three more breast-pins were promised.  They were hardly gone when nine more Mrs. Youngs filed into the presence, and a new tempest burst forth and raged round about the prophet and his guest.  Nine breast-pins were promised, and the weird sisters filed out again.  And in came eleven more, weeping and wailing and gnashing their teeth.  Eleven promised breast-pins purchased peace once more.

“That is a specimen,” said Mr. Young.  “You see how it is.  You see what a life I lead.  A man can’t be wise all the time.  In a heedless moment I gave my darling No. 6—­excuse my calling her thus, as her other name has escaped me for the moment—­a breast-pin.  It was only worth twenty-five dollars—­that is, apparently that was its whole cost—­but its ultimate cost was inevitably bound to be a good deal more.  You yourself have seen it climb up to six hundred and fifty dollars—­and alas, even that is not the end!  For I have wives all over this Territory of Utah.  I have dozens of wives whose numbers, even, I do not know without looking in the family Bible.  They are scattered far and wide among the mountains and valleys of my realm.  And mark you, every solitary one of them will hear of this wretched breast pin, and every last one of them will have one or die.  No. 6’s breast pin will cost me twenty-five hundred dollars before I see the end of it.  And these creatures will compare these pins together, and if one is a shade finer than the rest, they will all be thrown on my