So she stepped into the cave, and sat down, on the withered leaves by the dog-headed woman’s side.  In all the world, since her daughter’s loss, she had found no other companion.

“O Hecate.” said she, “if ever you lose a daughter, you will know what sorrow is.  Tell me, for pity’s sake, have you seen my poor child Proserpina pass by the mouth of your cavern?”

“No.” answered Hecate, in a cracked voice, and sighing betwixt every word or two.—­“no.  Mother Ceres, I have seen nothing of your daughter.  But my ears, you must know, are made in such a way that all cries of distress and affright, all over the world, are pretty sure to find their way to them:  and nine days ago, as I sat in my cave, making myself very miserable.  I heard the voice of a young girl, shrieking as if in great distress.  Something terrible has happened to the child, you may rest assured.  As well as I could judge, a dragon, or some other cruel monster, was carrying her away.”

“You kill me by saying so,” cried Ceres, almost ready to faint.  “Where was the sound, and which way did it seem to go?”

“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 you 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 gloomy twilight 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 woebegone 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.”