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Eros awoke that morning, he found not Psyche by his side. He got up, thinking that she was in the garden, and went out.

The sky was dull and lowering, a mist hung over the hills. The lark had not sung, the cupids were not fluttering about.

“Psyche!” cried he, “Psyche!”

No answer was returned. No sigh rustled in the leaves of the trees; no insect hummed in the grass; the flowers hung down withered on their limp stems. A deathly chilliness reigned around. A fearful presentiment took possession of Eros. He walked along the flower-beds, along the brook.

“Oh! where is Psyche?” he cried. “Oh, tell me, water, flowers, birds, where is Psyche!!”

No answer was returned. The brook flowed on murkily and noiselessly, the flowers lay across the path; no bird sang among the leaves. He wrung his hands and hastened on.