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 com-
posed. For, besides a great many other accom-
plishments, this young man was renowned for
his admirable poetry.

As Ceres and her dismal companion ap-
proached him, Phoebus smiled on them so cheer-
fully 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 recol-
lect; 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

[[245]]

p244 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p245w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p246

v?