crackled showers of sparks flew up the wide chimney, and the ruddy light sent grotesque shadows dancing over the walls. In the centre of the room, superintending, the servants as they prepared a substantial repast, was the stately figure of the doctor's wife.
Agatha Chenoweth was still a handsome woman, although no longer young. Her face was beautiful, not with the fragile delicacy which is so often called beauty, but with the beauty of strength. Her mother was a French Huguenot and her father a Flemish nobleman. John Chenoweth knew when first he saw her in one of the forbidden conventicles that she was as dear to him as his own soul. With a quiet persistence which was a part of his heritage, he made her acquaintance. Although he was aware that Agatha Van Cortlandt had refused the hand of more than one nobleman, this penniless young doctor, with boldness, yet with manly dignity, pressed his suit. His simple integrity and unselfish devotion won the heart of this noble maiden. Their mutual friend, the French Huguenot preacher Peregrine de la Grange, married them. Four children had been given them, two of whom died in infancy, leaving to comfort their hearts the talented young advocate, Conrad, and a little daughter, Elizabeth.
The remaining occupant of the kitchen was the Burgomaster's daughter, who sat before the huge
