“What,” said Hecate, “the young man that always sits in the sunshine?  Oh, 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 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 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.”