But it is now time for us to see what Epimetheus was doing.

This was the first time, since his little playmate had come to dwell with him, that he had attempted to enjoy any pleasure in which she did not partake.  But nothing went right; nor was he nearly so happy as on other days.  He could not find a sweet grape or a ripe fig (if Epimetheus had a fault, it was a little too much fondness for figs); or, if ripe at all, they were overripe, and so sweet as to be cloying.  There was no mirth in his heart, such as usually made his voice gush out, 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.