And truly, my dear little folks, did you ever hear of such a pitiable case in all your lives?  Here was literally the richest breakfast that could be set before a king, and its very richness made it absolutely good for nothing.  The poorest laborer sitting down to his crust of bread and cup of water was far better off than King Midas, whose delicate food was really worth its weight in gold.  And what was to be done?  Already, at breakfast, Midas was excessively hungry.  Would he be less so by dinner-time?  And how ravenous would be his appetite for supper, which must undoubtedly consist of the same sort of indigestible dishes as those now before him!  How many days, think you, would he survive a continuance of this rich fare?

These reflections so troubled wise King Midas that he began to doubt whether, after all, riches are the one desirable thing in the world, or even the most desirable.  But this was only a passing thought.  So fascinated was Midas with the glitter of the yellow metal that he would still have refused to give up the Golden Touch for so paltry a consideration as a breakfast.  Just imagine what a price for one meal’s victuals!  It would have been the same as paying millions and millions of money (and as many millions more as would take forever to reckon up) for some fried trout, an egg, a potatoes a hot cake, and a cup of coffee.

“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 color, 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!