Alas, what had King Midas done? How fatal was the gift which the
stranger had 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. O 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 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.