But Mother Ceres, the
moment she saw her, knew that this was an odd kind of a person, who put
all her enjoyment in being miserable, and never would have a word to say
to other people, unless they were as melancholy and wretched as she
herself delighted to be.
"I am wretched enough now," thought poor Ceres, "to talk with this
melancholy Hecate, were she ten times sadder than ever she was yet."
So she stepped into the cave, and sat down on the withered leaves by the
dog-headed woman's side. In all the world, since her daughter's loss,
she had found no other companion.
"O Hecate," said she, "if ever you lose a daughter, you will know what
sorrow is. Tell me, for pity's sake, have you seen my poor child
Proserpina pass by the mouth of your cavern?"
"No," answered Hecate, in a cracked voice, and sighing betwixt every
word or two--"no, Mother Ceres, I have seen nothing of your daughter.
But my ears, you must know, are made in such a way that all cries of
distress and affright, all over the world, are pretty sure to find
their way to them; and nine days ago, as I sat in my cave, making myself
very miserable, I heard the voice of a young girl shrieking as if in
great distress. Something terrible has happened to the child, you may
rest assured. As well as I could judge, a dragon, or some other cruel
monster, was carrying her away."
"You kill me by saying so," cried Ceres, almost ready to faint.
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