ttle 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 teardrops
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 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