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 have at length hit upon something that will satisfy you. Tell me your wish.’

‘It is only this,’ replied Midas. ‘I am weary of collecting my treasures with so much trouble, and beholding the heap so diminutive, after I have done my best. I wish everything that I touch to be changed to gold!’

The stranger’s smile grew so very broad, that it seemed to fill the room like an outburst of the sun, gleaming into a shadowy dell, where the yellow autumnal leaves–for so looked the lumps and particles of gold—lie strewn in the glow of light.

‘The Golden Touch!’ exclaimed he. ‘You certainly deserve credit, friend Midas, for striking out so brilliant a conception. But are you quite sure that this will satisfy you?’

‘How could it fail?’ said Midas.

‘And will you never regret the possession of it?’

‘What could induce me?’ asked Midas. ‘I ask nothing else, to render me perfectly happy.’

‘Be it as you wish, then,’ replied the stranger, waving his hand in token of farewell. ‘To-morrow, at sunrise, you will find yourself gifted with the Golden Touch.’

The figure of the stranger then became exceedingly bright, and Midas involuntarily closed his eyes. On opening them again, he beheld only one yellow sunbeam in the room, and, all around him, the glistening of the precious metal which he had spent his life in hoarding up.

Whether Midas slept as usual that night, the story does not say. Asleep or awake, however, his mind was probably in the state of a child’s, to whom a beautiful new plaything has been promised in the morning. At any rate,