The building, from its tiny windows to its brass bell and the scraper on the stoep, was scrupulously clean and trim, and here, amid joy and pain, the bittersweets of life, which are included in that one word, home, dwelt our friends. Time had dealt gently with them all. Dr. Chenoweth's hair had silvered, and he walked with less vigorous tread; but as he sat on his vine-covered porch, beside his still comely wife, he was the picture of stately rest after labor.
One afternoon in July, 1584, the family were surprised by the unexpected appearance of Conrad and Reynold. Their faces were grief-stricken, and they made no attempt to conceal their profound emotion.
"What has happened?" inquired Dr. Chenoweth.
Conrad could not answer, for tears choked his utterance, and Reynold replied, "William, Prince of Orange, has at last been assassinated."
"Assassinated?" echoed his listeners, with blanched faces.
"Yes," was the reply. "There have been five attempts to murder the Prince within the last two years. The sixth attempt was successful."
"Tell us the particulars of this foul deed!" said Dr. Chenoweth, in a broken voice.
"A young man came to the house of the Prince in Delft, and represented himself as Francis Guion,
