ing 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 besides a great many other accomplishments, this
young man was renowned for his admirable poetry.

As Ceres and her dismal companion 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."

"Oh, 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