ments, this young man was renowned for his admirable poetry.
As Ceres and her dismal companion approached him, Phœbus 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 Phœbus smiled or frowned.
"Phœbus!" 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 Phœbus, 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 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 Phœbus, 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
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