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 “Where?” said Psyche.

“Look. . . . there!” He pointed in the distance with his finger.

On the hill Psyche saw forms madly whirling round in a dance.

“Those are the Bacchantes!” said the Satyr. Psyche laughed.

“How madly they whirl round!” she exclaimed. “Are they always so merry?”

“Oh, we are always dancing,” said the Satyr. “In the wood it is always pleasure. We play at tag with one another, we drink the juice of the grapes, and we dance till nightfall.”

“Psyche! Psyche!” called a voice.

It was her husband. The Satyr fled through the flags, and Psyche hastened back.

She threw herself into Eros’ arms, who asked her where she had been. And without answering him, she began to cry and hid her face in his breast.

“What is it, little Psyche?” asked Eros. “Are you in trouble? Amongst the roses the boys cry, and by the brook the queen cries. Is there then sadness in my kingdom? Does not Psyche feel happy?”

She wept and shrugged her shoulders, as if