t, of its own
accord, and swell the merriment of his companions. In short, he grew so
uneasy and discontented, that the other children could not imagine what
was the matter with Epimetheus. Neither did he himself know what ailed
him, any better than they did. For you must recollect that, at the time
we are speaking of, it was everybody's nature, and constant habit, to be
happy. The world had not yet learned to be otherwise. Not a single soul
or body, since these children were first sent to enjoy themselves on the
beautiful earth, had ever been sick or out of sorts.

At length, discovering that, somehow or other, he put a stop to all the
play, Epimetheus judged it best to go back to Pandora, who was in a
humour better suited to his own. But, with a hope of giving her
pleasure, he gathered some flowers, and made them into a wreath, which
he meant to put upon her head. The flowers were very lovely--roses, and
lilies, and orange blossoms, and a great many more, which left a trail
of fragrance behind, as Epimetheus carried them along; and the wreath
was put together with as much skill as could reasonably be expected of a
boy. The fingers of little girls, it has always appeared to me, are the
fittest to twine flower wreaths; but boys could do it, in those days,
rather better than they can now.

And here I must mention that a great black cloud had been gathering in
the sky, for some time past, although it had not yet overspread the sun.
But, just as Epimetheus reached the cottage door, this cloud began to
intercept the sunshine, and thus to make a sudden and sad obscurity.

He entered softly, for he meant, if possible, to steal behind Pandora,
and fling the wreath of flowers over her head, before she should be
aware of his approach. But, as it happened, there was no need of his
treading so very lightly. He might have trod as heavily as he
pleased--as heavily as a grown man--as heavily, I was going to say, as
an elephant--without much probability of Pandora's hearing his
footsteps. She was too intent upon her purpose. At the moment of his
entering the cottage, the naughty child had put her hand to the lid,
and was on the point of opening the mysterious box. Epimetheus beheld
her. If he had cried out, Pandora would probably have withdrawn her
hand, and the fatal mystery of the box might never have been known.

But Epimetheus himself, although he said very little about it, had his
own share of curiosity to know what was inside