A feeling of desolation came over her. It was not enough for her to take care of the old man who was drawing nearer to her every day; nor was it enough for her to dust the books, and serve any chance customers who might look in. In the midst of her trouble she remembered some of her old ambitions; and she turned to them for comfort as we turn to old friends. "I will try to begin my book," she said to herself. "If I can only get interested in it, I shall forget my anxiety!" But the love of her work had left her. Bernardine fretted. She sat in the old bookshop, her pen unused, her paper uncovered. She was very miserable. Then one evening when she was feeling that it was of no use trying to force herself to begin her book, she took her pen suddenly, and wrote the following prologue. CHAPTER III. FAILURE AND SUCCESS: A PROLOGUE. FAILURE and Success passed away from Earth, and found themselves in a Foreign Land. Success still wore her laurel-wreath which she had won on Earth. There was a look of ease about her whole appearance; and there was a smile of pleasure and satisfaction on her face, as though she knew she had done well and had deserved her honours. Failure's head was bowed: no laurel-wreath encircled it. Her face was wan, and pain-engraven. She had once been beautiful and hopeful, but she had long since lost both hope and beauty. They stood together, these two, waiting for an audience with the Sovereign of the Foreign Land. An old grey-haired man came to them and asked their names. "I am Success," said Success, advancing a step forward, and smiling at him, and pointing to her laurel-wreath. He shook his head. "Ah," he said, "do not be too confident. Very often things go by opposites in this land. What you call Success, we often call Failure; what you call Failure, we call Success. Do you see those two men waiting there? The one nearer to us was thought to be a good man in your world; the other was generally accounted bad. But here we call the bad man good, and the good man bad. That seems strange to you. Well then, look yonder. You considered that statesman to be sincere; but we say he was insincere. We chose as our poet-laureate a man at whom your world scoffed. Ay, and those flowers yonder: for us they have a fragrant charm; we love to see them near us. But you do not even take the trouble to pluck them from the hedges where they grow in rich profusion. So, you see, what we value as a treasure, you do not value at all." Then he turned to Failure. "And your name?" he asked kindly, though indeed he must have known it. "I am Failure," she said sadly. He took her by the hand. "Come, now, Success," he said to her: "let me lead you into the Presence-Chamber."