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 this 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 luster 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.

“I am very miserable,” said he.

“Very miserable, indeed!” exclaimed the stranger.  “And how happens that?  Have I not faithfully kept my promise with you?  Have you not everything that your heart desired?”

“Gold is not everything,” answered Midas, “and I have lost all that my heart really cared for.”

“Ah! so you have made a discovery since yesterday?” observed the stranger.  “Let us see, then.  Which of these two things do you think is, really worth the most—­the gift of the Golden Touch, or one cup of clear, cold water?”

“Oh, blessed water!” exclaimed Midas.  “It will never moisten my parched throat again.”

“The Golden Touch,” continued the stranger, “or a crust of bread?”