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 down his head, without speaking; for he recognised the same figure which had appeared to him, the day before, in the treasure-room, and had bestowed on him this disastrous faculty of the Golden Touch. The stranger’s countenance still wore a smile, which seemed to shed a yellow lustre all about the room, and gleamed on little Marygold’s image, and on the other objects that had been transmuted by the touch of Midas.

‘Well, friend Midas,’ said the stranger, ‘pray how do you succeed with the Golden Touch?’

Midas shook his head.

‘I am very miserable,’ said he.

‘Very miserable, indeed!’ exclaimed the stranger. ‘And how happens that? Have I not faithfully kept my promise with you? Have you not everything that your heart desired?’

‘Gold is not everything,’ answered Midas. ‘And I have lost all that my heart really cared for.’

‘Ah! So you have made a discovery, since yesterday?’ observed the stranger. ‘Let us see, then. Which of these two things do you think is really worth the most,–the gift of the Golden Touch, or one cup of clear cold water?’

‘O blessed water!’ exclaimed Midas. ‘It will never moisten my parched throat again!’

‘The Golden Touch,’ continued the stranger, ‘or a crust of bread?’

‘A piece of bread,’ answered Midas, ‘is worth all the gold on earth!’

‘The Golden Touch,’ asked the stranger, ‘or your own little Marygold, warm, soft, and loving as she was an hour ago?’