“It would be quite too dear,” thought Midas.

Nevertheless, so great was his hunger, and the perplexity of his situation, that he again groaned aloud, and very grievously, too.  Our pretty Marygold could endure it no longer.  She sat, a moment, gazing at her father, and trying, with all the might of her little wits, to find out what was the matter with him.  Then, with a sweet and sorrowful impulse to comfort him, she started from her chair, and, running to Midas, threw her arms affectionately about his knees.  He bent down and kissed her.  He felt that his little daughter’s love was worth a thousand times more than he had gained by the Golden Touch.

“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 colour, with yellow tear-drops 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 favourite 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 fulness 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 colour to his dear child’s face.