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Updated: June 28, 2025
For this purpose he led little Marygold into the garden, where he sprinkled all the remainder of the water over the rose- bushes, and with such good effect that above five thousand roses recovered their beautiful bloom. There were two circumstances, however, which, as long as he lived, used to put King Midas in mind of the Golden Touch.
What do you mean by such an expression?" said Mrs. Florence in surprise, and with something of indignation latent in her tone. "I'm sure their father, Mr. Clayton, is nothing but a teacher." "Mr. Clayton! Surely those are not Clayton's daughters!" ejaculated Mrs. Marygold, in surprise. "They certainly are ma'am," replied Mrs.
"It is no great matter, nevertheless," said he to himself, very philosophically. "We cannot expect any great good, without its being accompanied with some small inconvenience. The Golden Touch is worth the sacrifice of a pair of spectacles, at least, if not of one's very eyesight. My own eyes will serve for ordinary purposes, and little Marygold will soon be old enough to read to me."
As far as her own opinion went the result of the transaction would be most happy. But still she feared Arabella. She felt that she would not know how to tell her story when she got back to Marygold Place. "My dear, he won't marry you; but he is to give you 8,000 pounds." That was what she would have to say, but she doubted her own courage to put her story into words so curt and explanatory.
Take their manners. Are they not graceful, gentle, and yet full of nature's own expression. In a word, is there any thing about them that is 'common?" "Nothing that my eye has detected," replied Mrs. Florence. "Except their origin," half-sneeringly rejoined Mrs. Marygold. "They were born of woman," was the grave remark. "Can any of us boast a higher origin?"
Little Marygold had not yet made her appearance. Her father ordered her to be called, and, seating himself at the table, awaited the child's coming in order to begin his own breakfast. To do Midas justice, he really loved his daughter, and loved her so much the more this morning on account of the good fortune which had befallen him.
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.
To the best of my belief, however, on this particular morning the breakfast consisted of hot cakes, some nice little brook trout, roasted potatoes, fresh boiled eggs, and coffee for King Midas himself, and a bowl of bread and milk for his daughter Marygold. At all events, this is a breakfast fit to set before a king, and, whether he had it or not, King Midas could not have had a better.
Perhaps this was all the better; for Marygold was accustomed to take pleasure in looking at the queer figures, and strange trees and houses, that were painted on the circumference of the bowl; and these ornaments were now entirely lost in the yellow hue of the metal.
For instance, as he says, the old myth told nothing about any daughter of Midas's, and yet I think we are all ready to admit that we should not love the story half so well without dear little Marygold.
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