in peace,” she replied, “and be happy in your daughter; I have lost mine.”  As she spoke, tears—­or something like tears, for the gods never weep—­fell down her cheeks upon her bosom.  The compassionate old man and his child wept with her.  Then said he, “Come with us, and despise not our humble roof; so may your daughter be restored to you in safety.”  “Lead on,” said she, “I cannot resist that appeal!” So she rose from the stone and went with them.  As they walked he told her that his only son, a little boy, lay very sick, feverish, and sleepless.  She stooped and gathered some poppies.  As they entered the cottage, they found all in great distress, for the boy seemed past hope of recovery.  Metanira, his mother, received her kindly, and the goddess stooped and kissed the lips of the sick child.  Instantly the paleness left his face, and healthy vigor returned to his body.  The whole family were delighted—­that is, the father, mother, and little girl, for they were all; they had no servants.  They spread the table, and put upon it curds and cream, apples, and honey in the comb.  While they ate, Ceres mingled poppy juice in the milk of the boy.  When night came and all was still, she arose, and taking the sleeping boy, moulded his limbs with her hands, and uttered over him three times a solemn charm, then went and laid him in the ashes.  His mother, who had been watching what her guest was doing, sprang forward with a cry and snatched the child from the fire.  Then Ceres assumed her own form, and a divine splendor shone all around.  While they were overcome with astonishment, she said, “Mother, you have been cruel in your fondness to your son.  I would have made him immortal, but you have frustrated my attempt.  Nevertheless, he shall be great and useful.  He shall teach men the use of the plough, and the rewards which labor can win from the cultivated soil.”  So saying, she wrapped a cloud about her, and mounting her chariot rode away.

Ceres continued her search for her daughter, passing from land to land, and across seas and rivers, till at length she returned to Sicily, whence she at first set out, and stood by the banks of the River Cyane, where Pluto made himself a passage with his prize to his own dominions.  The river nymph would have told the goddess all she had witnessed, but dared not, for fear of Pluto; so she only ventured to take up the girdle which Proserpine had dropped in her flight, and waft it to the feet of the mother.  Ceres, seeing this, was no longer in doubt of her loss, but she did not yet know the cause, and laid the blame on the innocent land.  “Ungrateful soil,” said she, “which I have endowed with fertility and clothed with herbage and nourishing grain, no more shall you enjoy my favors.”  Then the cattle died, the plough broke in the furrow, the seed failed to come up; there was too much sun, there was too much rain; the birds stole the seeds—­thistles and brambles were the only growth.  Seeing this, the fountain Arethusa interceded for the land.