auctioneer's candle, goes out just at the best bidding of years."

"Be at ease," said Cianna, "I will return the kindness you have shown
me."

Then she passed the mountains and arrived at a wide plain; and
proceeding a little way over it, she came to a large oak-tree,--a
memorial of antiquity, whose fruit (a mouthful which Time gives to this
bitter age of its lost sweetness) tasted like sweetmeats to the maiden,
who was satisfied with little. Then the oak, making lips of its bark
and a tongue of its pith, said to Cianna, "Whither are you going so
sad, my little daughter? Come and rest under my shade." Cianna thanked
him much, but excused herself, saying that she was going in haste to
find the Mother of Time. And when the oak heard this he replied, "You
are not far from her dwelling; for before you have gone another day's
journey, you will see upon a mountain a house, in which you will find
her whom you seek. But if you have as much kindness as beauty, I
prithee learn for me what I can do to regain my lost honour; for
instead of being food for great men, I am now only made the food of
hogs."

"Leave that to me," replied Cianna, "I will take care to serve you." So
saying, she departed, and walking on and on without ever resting, she
came at length to the foot of an impertinent mountain, which was poking
its head into the face of the clouds. There she found an old man, who,
wearied and wayworn, had lain down upon some hay; and as soon as he saw
Cianna, he knew her at once, and that it was she who had cured his bump.

When the old man heard what she was seeking, he told her that he was
carrying to Time the rent for the piece of earth which he had
cultivated, and that Time was a tyrant who usurped everything in the
world, claiming tribute from all, and especially from people of his
age; and he added that, having received kindness from Cianna, he would
now return it a hundredfold by giving her some good information about
her arrival at the mountain; and that he was sorry he could not
accompany her thither, since his old age, which was condemned rather to
go down than up, obliged him to remain at the foot of those mountains,
to cast up accounts with the clerks of Time--which are the labours, the
sufferings, and the infirmities of life--and to pay the debt of Nature.
So the old man said to her, "Now, my pretty, innocent child, listen to
me. You must know that on the top of this mountain you will find a
ruined house, which w