“It is no great matter, nevertheless,” said he to himself, very philosophically.  “We cannot expect any great good without its being accompanied with some small inconvenience.  The Golden Touch is worth the sacrifice of a pair of spectacles at least, if not of one’s very eyesight.  My own eyes will serve for ordinary purposes, and little Marygold will soon be old enough to read to me.”

Wise King Midas was so exalted by his good fortune that the palace seemed not sufficiently spacious to contain him.  He therefore went downstairs and smiled on observing that the balustrade of the staircase became a bar of burnished gold as his hand passed over it in his descent.

He lifted the doorlatch (it was brass only a moment ago, but golden when his fingers quitted it) and emerged into the garden.  Here, as it happened, he found a great number of beautiful roses in full bloom and others in all the stages of lovely bud and blossom.  Very delicious was their fragrance in the morning breeze.  Their delicate blush was one of the fairest sights in the world, so gentle, and so full of sweet tranquility did these roses seem to be.

But Midas knew a way to make them far more precious, according to his way of thinking, than roses had ever been before.  So he took great pains in going from bush to bush, and exercised his magic touch most indefatigably, until every individual flower and bud, and even the worms at the heart of some of them, were changed to gold.  By the time this good work was completed, King Midas was summoned to breakfast, and, as the morning air had given him an excellent appetite, he made haste back to the palace.

What was usually a king’s breakfast in the days of Midas I really do not know and cannot stop now to investigate.  To the best of my belief, however, on this particular morning the breakfast consisted of hot cakes, some nice little brook trout, roasted potatoes, fresh boiled eggs, and coffee for King Midas himself, and a bowl of bread and milk for his daughter Marygold.  At all events, this is a breakfast fit to set before a king, and, whether he had it or not, King Midas could not have had a better.

Little Marygold had not yet made her appearance.  Her father ordered her to be called, and, seating himself at the table, awaited the child’s coming in order to begin his own breakfast.  To do Midas justice, he really loved his daughter, and loved her so much the more this morning on account of the good fortune which had befallen him.  It was not a great while before he heard her coming along the passageway crying bitterly.  This circumstance surprised him, because Marygold was one of the cheerfulest little people whom you would see in a summer’s day, and hardly shed a thimbleful of tears in a twelvemonth.  When Midas heard her sobs he determined to put little Marygold into better spirits by an agreeable surprise; so, leaning across the table, he touched his daughter’s bowl (which was a china one with pretty figures all around it) and transmuted it to gleaming gold.