The most beautiful face of all was done in what is called high relief, in the centre of the lid.  There was nothing else, save the dark, smooth richness of the polished wood, and this one face in the centre, with a garland of flowers about its brow.  Pandora had looked at this face a great many times, and imagined that the mouth could smile if it liked, or be grave when it chose, the same as any living mouth.  The features, indeed, all wore a very lively and rather mischievous expression, which looked almost as if it needs must burst out of the carved lips, and utter itself in words.

Had the mouth spoken, it would probably have been something like this: 

“Do not be afraid, Pandora!  What harm can there be in opening the box?  Never mind that poor, simple Epimetheus!  You are wiser than he, and have ten times as much spirit.  Open the box, and see if you do not find something very pretty!”

The box, I had almost forgotten to say, was fastened; not by a lock, nor by any other such contrivance, but by a very intricate knot of gold cord.  There appeared to be no end to this knot, and no beginning.  Never was a knot so cunningly twisted, nor with so many ins and outs, which roguishly defied the skilfullest fingers to disentangle them.  And yet, by the very difficulty that there was in it, Pandora was the more tempted to examine the knot, and just see how it was made.  Two or three times, already, she had stooped over the box, and taken the knot between her thumb and forefinger, but without positively trying to undo it.

“I really believe,” said she to herself, “that I begin to see how it was done.  Nay, perhaps I could tie it up again, after undoing it.  There would be no harm in that, surely.  Even Epimetheus would not blame me for that.  I need not open the box, and should not, of course, without the foolish boy’s consent, even if the knot were untied.”

It might have been better for Pandora if she had had a little work to do, or anything to employ her mind upon, so as not to be so constantly thinking of this one subject.  But children led so easy a life, before any Troubles came into the world, that they had really a great deal too much leisure.  They could not be forever playing at hide-and-seek among the flower shrubs, or at blind-man’s-buff with garlands over their eyes, or at whatever other games had been found out, while Mother Earth was in her babyhood.  When life is all sport, toil is the real play.  There was absolutely nothing to do.  A little sweeping and dusting about the cottage, I suppose, and the gathering of fresh flowers (which were only too abundant everywhere), and arranging them in vases—­and poor little Pandora’s day’s work was over.  And then, for the rest of the day, there was the box!