knew!" said Pandora. "What will
Epimetheus say? And how can I possibly tie it up again?"

She made one or two attempts to restore the knot, but soon found it
quite beyond her skill. It had disentangled itself so suddenly that
she could not in the least remember how the strings had been doubled
into one another; and when she tried to recollect the shape and
appearance of the knot, it seemed to have gone entirely out of her
mind. Nothing was to be done, therefore, but to let the box remain as
it was until Epimetheus should come in.

"But," said Pandora, "when he finds the knot untied, he will know that
I have done it. How shall I make him believe that I have not looked
into the box?"

And then the thought came into her naughty little heart, that, since
she would be suspected of having looked into the box, she might just
as well do so at once. Oh, very naughty and very foolish Pandora! You
should have thought only of doing what was right, and of leaving
undone what was wrong, and not of what your playfellow Epimetheus
would have said or believed. And so perhaps she might, if the
enchanted face on the lid of the box had not looked so bewitchingly
persuasive at her, and if she had not seemed to hear, more distinctly
than before, the murmur of small voices within. She could not tell
whether it was fancy or no; but there was quite a little tumult of
whispers in her ear,--or else it was her curiosity that whispered,--

"Let us out, dear Pandora,--pray let us out! We will be such nice
pretty playfellows for you! Only let us out!"

"What can it be?" thought Pandora. "Is there something alive in the
box? Well!--yes!--I am resolved to take just one peep! Only one peep;
and then the lid shall be shut down as safely as ever! There cannot
possibly be any harm in just one little peep!"

But it is now time for us to see what Epimetheus was doing.

This was the first time, since his little playmate had come to dwell
with him, that he had attempted to enjoy any pleasure in which she did
not partake. But nothing went right; nor was he nearly so happy as on
other days. He could not find a sweet grape or a ripe fig (if
Epimetheus had a fault, it was a little too much fondness for figs);
or, if ripe at all, they were over-ripe, and so sweet as to be
cloying. There was no mirth in his heart, such as usually made his
voice gush out, of its own accord, and swell the merriment of his
companions. In short, he grew so uneasy and discontente