Proserpina’s only reply was “My mother!  O, my poor mother!” And truly Ceres deserved pity.  She had hastened at evening back to her home in Sicily, happy in the thought of seeing her daughter, only to find that daughter gone.  The nymphs had retreated, long before, to their beds of seaweed in the green ocean, and no one else could give the poor distracted mother any news.  When black night had really settled over the earth, Ceres closed the door of her home, vowing never to open it until she returned with Proserpina.  Then, lighting a torch, she set forth, alone and on foot, to seek her daughter.

From country to country she roamed, all over the earth, neither eating nor sleeping, but spending day and night in her search.  Of every one she met she demanded, “Have you seen my daughter?”

No one recognized her; and small wonder, for her grief had changed her in appearance from a radiant goddess to a haggard, sad-eyed old woman.  “Mad,” whispered people as they passed her; for her clothes were ragged and flapping about her, and always, even in the brightest sunlight, she bore in her hand the lighted torch.

One day, weary and hopeless, she sank upon a stone by the roadside, and sat there with her head in her hands, wondering to what land she could next turn her footsteps.

A soft, pitying voice broke in upon her grief, and she raised her head to see two young girls standing before her.

“Poor old woman,” said one, “why are you so sad?”

“Ah,” cried Ceres, “when I look upon you I am sadder still, for I have lost my only child.”

Impulsively the older girl held out her hand.  “Come with us,” she urged.  “We are the daughters of the king of this country, and were but now seeking through the city for a nurse for our baby brother, Triptolemus.  You, who have lost the child you loved—­will you not take charge of our brother and bestow on him some of your love?”

Touched by their kindness, Ceres followed them; and indeed, she felt the first joy she had known since the disappearance of her daughter when the little prince was put into her arms.  But such a weak, puny, wailing princelet as he was!  Ceres smiled down at him, and bent her head and kissed him; when, to the utter amazement of those gathered about, he ceased the crying which he had kept up for days, smiled, and clapped his little hands.

And, unless their eyes much deceived them, he began to grow round and rosy and well!

“Will you give this child entirely into my keeping?” asked Ceres.

“Gladly, gladly!” exclaimed the mother, Metanira.  For who would not have been glad to engage a nurse whose mere touch worked such wonders?

But as the child’s bedtime drew near, Metanira became worried and restless.  No one but herself had ever tended him before—­was it really safe to trust this stranger?  At least, she would watch; and quietly she stole to the door which separated her own apartment from that which had been given to Ceres.  The stranger sat before the hearth, with the crowing, happy baby on her knee.  Gently she drew off his clothing, gently she anointed him with some liquid, the delicious perfume of which reached Metanira.  Then, murmuring some sounding, rhythmic words, she leaned forward and placed him on the glowing coals.