"Oh, my daughter. . ." Demeter wept into her hands, rocking a little beside Hestia's hearth. "My poor girl, taken so far from me, hidden away. . ."

Hestia sighed and draped a shawl around Demeter's shoulders, though she wasn't sure Demeter felt the bitter cold wrought of her grief, and thought of the bloom of Persephone as she was now - no longer a foolish waif of a girl but a queen.