give me room to fling myself down, either on those withered leaves or on the naked rock, I will show you what it is to be miserable. But until I know that she has perished from the face of the earth, I will not allow myself space even to grieve.'
The dismal Hecate did not much like the idea of going abroad into the sunny world. But then she reflected that the sorrow of the disconsolate Ceres would be like a gloomy twilight round about them both, let the sun shine ever so brightly, and that therefore she might enjoy her bad spirits quite as well as if she were to stay in the cave. So she finally consented to go, and they set out together, both carrying torches, although it was broad daylight and clear sunshine. The torchlight seemed to make a gloom; so that the people whom they met along the road could not very distinctly see their figures; and, indeed, if they once caught a glimpse of Hecate, with the wreath of snakes around her forehead, they generally thought it prudent to run away, without waiting for a second glance.
As the pair travelled along in this woe-begone manner, a thought struck Ceres.
'There is one person,' she exclaimed, 'who must have seen my poor child, and can doubtless tell what has become of her. Why did I not think of him before? It is Phœbus.'
'What,' said Hecate, 'the young man that always sits in the sunshine? Oh, pray do not think of going near him. He is a gay, light, frivolous young fellow, and will
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