Juana though grieved at his long delays, had opportunity for rest from the whirl of gayeties, and for the first time in her life thought and conscience seemed to be awakening. Young as she was, she could enter somewhat into the experience of another one who "laid hold on folly," and found it "vanity and vexation of spirit." Of late an unaccountable feeling of depression and self-condemnation would sometimes steal over her. A voice seemed often to ask her, "If this was all of life, to frolic away a few brief days and die, and then—what? Could it be that death was the end?" One evening during her husband's absence, she walked in the grounds with her maid, and paused by the old stone gateway to watch a little group of Protestants on their way to a prayer meeting in the small chapel just beyond. She felt sad and lonely, and wished that some of those peaceful-faced women could speak to her, so that she might find out what it was that made them seem so different from all others. "Those people are happy, Ria," she said to the maid; "they look as if they had found something that rests them. I wish I knew what it was." And Ria, casting a puzzled glance at her young mistress, wondered what she had to weary her. Juana dismissed her maid after a little and betook herself to an upper veranda, where the music of sweet hymns from the little chapel stole softly up on the evening breeze. The tender airs melted her to tears, and an unutterable yearning for something better and higher than she had ever known filled her heart. It was the first dawning cry of an immortal soul, unsatisfied with earthly good, seeking for its God. These feelings did not pass away with the next morning's sunlight. She felt wretched and dissatisfied, and gloom settled down upon her. This could not be accounted for by the long absence of her husband; for when he returned for a brief stay the solemn thoughts still oppressed her, though she tried to shake them off and appear as usual. Genuine affection would have detected and searched out with tender sympathy the trouble that just hinted itself in the sobered look of the dark eyes. But Paul liked sunshine and laughter; and, true to his selfish nature, was only annoyed that his wife seemed to be taking on something of the dignity of womanhood, and was less like a butterfly or a frisky kitten.