“My precious, precious Marygold!” cried he.

But Marygold made no answer.

Alas, what had he done?  How fatal was the gift which the stranger bestowed!  The moment the lips of Midas touched Marygold’s forehead, a change had taken place.  Her sweet, rosy face, so full of affection as it had been, assumed a glittering yellow color, with yellow teardrops congealing on her cheeks.  Her beautiful brown ringlets took the same tint.  Her soft and tender little form grew hard and inflexible within her father’s encircling arms.  Oh, terrible misfortune!  The victim of his insatiable desire for wealth, little Marygold was a human child no longer, but a golden statue!

Yes, there she was, with the questioning look of love, grief, and pity, hardened into her face.  It was the prettiest and most woeful sight that ever mortal saw.  All the features and tokens of Marygold were there; even the beloved little dimple remained in her golden chin.  But the more perfect was the resemblance, the greater was the father’s agony at beholding this golden image, which was all that was left him of a daughter.  It had been a favorite phrase of Midas, whenever he felt particularly fond of the child, to say that she was worth her weight in gold.  And now the phrase had become literally true.  And now, at last, when it was too late, he felt how infinitely a warm and tender heart, that loved him, exceeded in value all the wealth that could be piled up betwixt the earth and sky!

It would be too sad a story, if I were to tell you how Midas, in the fullness of all his gratified desires, began to wring his hands and bemoan himself; and how he could neither bear to look at Marygold, nor yet to look away from her.  Except when his eyes were fixed on the image, he could not possibly believe that she was changed to gold.  But stealing another glance, there was the precious little figure, with a yellow tear-drop on its yellow cheek, and a look so piteous and tender that it seemed as if that very expression must needs soften the gold, and make it flesh again.  This, however, could not be.  So Midas had only to wring his hands, and to wish that he were the poorest man in the wide world, if the loss of all his wealth might bring back the faintest rose-color to his dear child’s face.

While he was in this tumult of despair, he suddenly beheld a stranger standing near the door.  Midas bent down his head, without speaking; for he recognized the same figure which had appeared to him, the day before, in the treasure-room, and had bestowed on him this disastrous faculty of the Golden Touch.  The stranger’s countenance still wore a smile, which seemed to shed a yellow lustre all about the room, and gleamed on little Marygold’s image, and on the other objects that had been transmuted by the touch of Midas.

“Well, friend Midas,” said the stranger, “pray how do you succeed with the Golden Touch?”

Midas shook his head.