ing 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!

[Illustration: MIDAS' DAVGHTER TVRNED TO GOLD]

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 to wish that he were the
poorest man in the wide world, if the loss of all his wealth might