Her case, on the contrary, looked
more desperate than ever. As long as Proserpina was above ground there
might have been hopes of regaining her. But now, that the poor child was
shut up within the iron gates of the king of the mines, at the threshold
of which lay the three-headed Cerberus, there seemed no possibility of
her ever making her escape. The dismal Hecate, who loved to take the
darkest view of things, told Ceres that she had better come with her to
the cavern, and spend the rest of her life in being miserable. Ceres
answered that Hecate was welcome to go back thither herself, but that,
for her part, she would wander about the earth in quest of the entrance
to King Pluto's dominions. And Hecate took her at her word, and hurried
back to her beloved cave, frightening a great many little children with
a glimpse of her dog's face as she went.
Poor Mother Ceres! It is melancholy to think of her, pursuing her
toilsome way all alone, and holding up that never-dying torch, the flame
of which seemed an emblem of the grief and hope that burned together in
her heart. So much did she suffer that, though her aspect had been quite
youthful when her troubles began, she grew to look like an elderly
person in a very brief time. She cared not how she was dressed, nor had
she ever thought of flinging away the wreath of withered poppies which
she put on the very morning of Proserpina's disappearance.
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