“Where is Proserpina?” cried Ceres.  “Where is my child?  Tell me, you naughty sea nymphs, have you enticed her under the sea?”

“Oh, no, good Mother Ceres,” said the innocent sea nymphs, tossing back their green ringlets and looking her in the face.  “We never should dream of such a thing.  Proserpina has been at play with us, it is true; but she left us a long while ago, meaning only to run a little way upon the dry land and gather some flowers for a wreath.  This was early in the day, and we have seen nothing of her since.”

Ceres scarcely waited to hear what the nymphs had to say before she hurried off to make inquiries all through the neighbourhood.  But nobody told her anything that could enable the poor mother to guess what had become of Proserpina.  A fisherman, it is true, had noticed her little footprints in the sand, as he went homeward along the beach with a basket of fish; a rustic had seen the child stooping to gather flowers; several persons had heard either the rattling of chariot wheels or the rumbling of distant thunder; and one old woman, while plucking vervain and catnip, had heard a scream, but supposed it to be some childish nonsense, and therefore did not take the trouble to look up.  The stupid people!  It took them such a tedious while to tell the nothing that they knew, that it was dark night before Mother Ceres found out that she must seek her daughter elsewhere.  So she lighted a torch, and set forth, resolving never to come back until Proserpina was discovered.

In her haste and trouble of mind, she quite forgot her car and the winged dragons; or, it may be, she thought that she could follow up the search more thoroughly on foot.  At all events, this was the way in which she began her sorrowful journey, holding her torch before her, and looking carefully at every object along the path.  And as it happened, she had not gone far before she found one of the magnificent flowers which grew on the shrub that Proserpina had pulled up.

“Ha!” thought Mother Ceres, examining it by torchlight.  “Here is mischief in this flower!  The earth did not produce it by any help of mine, nor of its own accord.  It is the work of enchantment, and is therefore poisonous; and perhaps it has poisoned my poor child.”

But she put the poisonous flower in her bosom, not knowing whether she might ever find any other memorial of Proserpina.

All night long, at the door of every cottage and farmhouse, Ceres knocked and called up the weary labourers to inquire if they had seen her child; and they stood, gaping and half asleep, at the threshold, and answered her pityingly, and besought her to come in and rest.  At the portal of every palace, too, she made so loud a summons that the menials hurried to throw open the gate, thinking that it must be some great king or queen, who would demand a banquet for supper and a stately chamber to repose in.  And when they saw only a sad and anxious woman, with a torch in her