or worn by
suffering, a beauty greater than any beauty that has joyed the
Immortals!" And then she thought:

"For my beauty, Eros--_Love_--loved me; and now my beauty is worn and
wasted and well-nigh gone. Were I to open this box and make use of the
ointment of Proserpine, then indeed I should be fair enough to be the
bride of him who, even now, believes that he loves me--of Eros whose
love is my life!"

So it came to pass that she opened the fateful box. And out of it
there came not Beauty, but Sleep, that put his gyves upon her limbs,
and on her eyelids laid heavy fingers. And Psyche sank down by the
wayside, the prisoner of Sleep.

But Eros, who had loved her ever, with a love that knew the ebb and
flow of no tides, rose from his bed and went in search of her who had
braved even the horrors of Hades for his dear sake. And by the wayside
he found her, fettered by sleep. Her little oval face was white as a
snowdrop. Like violets were her heavy eyelids, and underneath her
sleeping eyes a violet shadow lay. Once had her mouth been as the bow
of Eros, painted in carmine. Now either end of the bow was turned
downwards, and its colour was that of a faded rose-leaf.

And as Eros looked at her that he loved, pity stirred his heart, as
the wind sweeps through the sighing, grey leaves of the willow, or
sings through the bowing reeds.

"My _Beloved_!" he said, and he knew that Psyche was indeed his
beloved. It was her fair soul that he loved, nor did it matter to him
whether her body was like a rose in June or as a wind-scourged tree in
December. And as his lips met hers, Psyche awoke, and heard his soft
whisper:

"Dear, unclose thine eyes.
Thou mayst look on me now. I go no more,
But am thine own forever."

Lewis Morris.

Then did there spring from the fair white shoulders of Psyche, wings
of silver and of gold, and, hand in hand with Eros, she winged her way
to Olympus.

And there all the deathless gods were assembled, and Aphrodite no
longer looked upon her who had once been her slave with darkened
brows, but smiled upon her as the sun smiles upon a new-born flower.
And when into the hand of Psyche there was placed a cup of gold, the
voice of the great Father and King of Olympus rang out loud and clear:

"Drink now, O beautiful, and have no fear!
For with this draught shalt thou be born again,
And live for ever free from care and pain."

William Morris.

In