"It passed very swiftly along," said Hecate, "and, at the same

time, there was a heavy rumbling of wheels towards the
eastward. I can tell you nothing more, except that, in my

honest opinion, you will never see your daughter again. The
best advice I can give you is, to take up your abode in this

cavern, where we will be the two most wretched women in the
world."

"Not yet, dark Hecate," replied Ceres. "But do you first come
with your torch, and help me to seek for my lost child. And

when there shall be no more hope of finding her (if that black
day is ordained to come), then, if you will give me room to

fling myself down, either on these withered leaves or on the
naked rock, I will show what it is to be miserable. But, until

I know that she has perished from the face of the earth, I will
not allow myself space even to grieve."

The dismal Hecate did not much like the idea of going abroad
into the sunny world. But then she reflected that the sorrow of

the disconsolate Ceres would be like a gloomytwilight round
about them both, let the sun shine ever so brightly, and that

therefore she might enjoy her bad spirits quite as well as if
she were to stay in the cave. So she finally consented to go,

and they set out together, both carrying torches, although it
was broad daylight and clear sunshine. The torchlight seemed to

make a gloom; so that the people whom they met, along the road,
could not very distinctly see their figures; and, indeed, if

they once caught a glimpse of Hecate, with the wreath of snakes
round her forehead, they generally thought it prudent to run

away, without waiting for a second glance.
As the pair traveled along in this woe-begone manner, a thought

struck Ceres.
"There is one person," she exclaimed, "who must have seen my

poor child, and can doubtless tell what has become of her. Why
did not I think of him before? It is Phoebus."

"What," said Hecate, "the young man that always sits in the
sunshine? O, pray do not think of going near him. He is a gay,

light, frivolous young fellow, and will only smile in your
face. And besides, there is such a glare of the sun about him,

that he will quite blind my poor eyes, which I have almost wept
away already."

"You have promised to be my companion," answered Ceres. "Come,
let us make haste, or the sunshine will be gone, and Phoebus

along with it."
Accordingly, they went along in quest of Phoebus, both of them

sighing grievously, and Hecate, to say the truth, making a
great deal worse lamentation than Ceres; for all the pleasure

she had, you know, lay in being miserable, and therefore she
made the most of it. By and by, after a pretty long journey,

they arrived at the sunniest spot in the whole world. There
they beheld a beautiful young man, with long, curling ringlets,

which seemed to be made of golden sunbeams; his garments were
like light summer clouds; and the expression of his face was so

exceedingly vivid, that Hecate held her hands before her eyes,
muttering that he ought to wear a black veil. Phoebus (for this

was the very person whom they were seeking) had a lyre in his
hands, and was making its chords tremble with sweet music; at

the same time singing a most exquisite song, which he had
recently composed. For, beside a great many other

accomplishments, this young man was renowned for his admirable
poetry.

As Ceres and her dismalcompanion approached him, Phoebus
smiled on them so cheerfully that Hecate's wreath of snakes

gave a spiteful hiss, and Hecate heartily wished herself back
in her cave. But as for Ceres, she was too earnest in her grief

either to know or care whether Phoebus smiled or frowned.
"Phoebus!" exclaimed she, "I am in great trouble, and have come

to you for assistance. Can you tell me what has become of my
dear child Proserpina?"

"Proserpina! Proserpina, did you call her name?" answered
Phoebus, endeavoring to recollect; for there was such a

continual flow of pleasant ideas in his mind, that he was apt
to forget what had happened no longer ago than yesterday. "Ah,

yes, I remember her now. A very lovely child, indeed. I am
happy to tell you, my dear madam, that I did see the little

Proserpina not many days ago. You may make yourself perfectly
easy about her. She is safe, and in excellent hands."

"O, where is my dear child?" cried Ceres, clasping her hands,
and flinging herself at his feet.

"Why," said Phoebus--and as he spoke he kept touching his lyre
so as to make a thread of music run in and out among his

words--"as the little damsel was gathering flowers (and she has
really a very exquisite taste for flowers), she was suddenly

snatched up by King Pluto, and carried off to his dominions. I
have never been in that part of the universe; but the royal

palace, I am told, is built in a very noble style of
architecture, and of the most splendid and costly materials.

Gold, diamonds, pearls, and all manner of precious stones will
be your daughter's ordinary playthings. I recommend to you, my

dear lady, to give yourself no uneasiness. Proserpina's sense
of beauty will be duly gratified, and even in spite of the lack

of sunshine, she will lead a very enviable life."
"Hush! Say not such a word!" answered Ceres, indignantly. "What

is there to gratify her heart? What are all the splendors you
speak of without affection? I must have her back again. Will

you go with me you go with me, Phoebus, to demand my daughter
of this wicked Pluto?"

"Pray excuse me," replied Phoebus, with an elegant obeisance.
"I certainly wish you success, and regret that my own affairs

are so immediately pressing that I cannot have the pleasure of
attending you. Besides, I am not upon the best of terms with

King Pluto. To tell you the truth, his three-headed mastiff
would never let me pass the gateway; for I should be compelled

to take a sheaf of sunbeams along with me, and those, you know,
are forbidden things in Pluto's kingdom."

"Ah, Phoebus," said Ceres, with bitter meaning in her words,
"you have a harp instead of a heart. Farewell."

"Will not you stay a moment," asked Phoebus, " nd hear me turn
the pretty and touching story of Proserpina into extemporary

verses?"
But Ceres shook her head, and hastened away, along with Hecate.

Phoebus (who, as I have told you, was an exquisite poet)
forthwith began to make an ode about the poor mother's grief;

and, if we were to judge of his sensibility by this beautiful
production, he must have been endowed with a very tender heart.

But when a poet gets into the habit of using his heartstrings
to make chords for his lyre, he may thrum upon them as much as

he will, without any great pain to himself. Accordingly, though
Phoebus sang a very sad song, he was as merry all the while as

were the sunbeams amid which he dwelt.
Poor Mother Ceres had now found out what had become of her

daughter, but was not a whit happier than before. Her case, on
the contrary, looked more desperate than ever. As long as

Proserpina was above ground, there might have been hopes of
regaining her. But now that the poor child was shut up within

the iron gates of the king of the mines, at the threshold of
which lay the three-headed Cerberus, there seemed no

possibility of her ever making her escape. The dismal Hecate,
who loved to take the darkest view of things, told Ceres that

she had better come with her to the cavern, and spend the rest
of her life in being miserable. Ceres answered, that Hecate was