ed it to gleaming gold.

Meanwhile, Marygold slowly and disconsolately opened the door, and showed
herself with her apron at her eyes, still sobbing as if her heart would
break.

"How now, my little lady!" cried Midas. "Pray what is the matter with you,
this bright morning?"

Marygold, without taking the apron from her eyes, held out her hand, in
which was one of the roses which Midas had so recently transmuted.

"Beautiful!" exclaimed her father. "And what is there in this magnificent
golden rose to make you cry?"

"Ah, dear father!" answered the child, as well as her sobs would let her;
"it is not beautiful, but the ugliest flower that ever grew! As soon as I
was dressed I ran into the garden to gather some roses for you; because I
know you like them, and like them the better when gathered by your little
daughter. But, oh dear, dear me! What do you think has happened? Such a
misfortune! All the beautiful roses, that smelled so sweet and had so many
lovely blushes, are blighted and spoilt! They are grown quite yellow, as
you see this one, and have no longer any fragrance! What can have been the
matter with them?"

"Poh, my dear little girl,--pray don't cry about it!" said Midas, who was
ashamed to confess that he himself had wrought the change which so greatly
afflicted her. "Sit down and eat your bread and milk! You will find it
easy enough to exchange a golden rose like that (which will last hundreds
of years) for an ordinary one which would wither in a day."

"I don't care for such roses as this!" cried Marygold, tossing it
contemptuously away. "It has no smell, and the hard petals prick my nose!"

The child now sat down to table, but was so occupied with her grief for
the blighted roses that she did not even notice the wonderful
transmutation of her China bowl. Perhaps this was all the better; for
Marygold was accustomed to take pleasure in looking at the queer figures,
and strange trees and houses, that were painted on the circumference of
the bowl; and these ornaments were now entirely lost in the yellow hue of
the metal.

Midas, meanwhile, had poured out a cup of coffee, and, as a matter of
course, the coffee-pot, whatever metal it may have been when he took it
up, was gold when he set it down. He thought to himself, that it was
rather an extravagant style of splendor, in a king of his simple habits,
to breakfast off a service of gold, and began to be puzzled with the
difficulty of keeping his treasure