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Updated: June 20, 2025
So Koosje never heeded the looks, turned her head neither to the right nor to the left, but went sedately on her business or pleasure, whichever it happened to be. It was not likely that such a treasure could remain long unnoticed and unsought after.
"What is the maid to you?" Koosje asked, indignantly. "Maybe more than you are," he retorted; in answer to which Koosje deliberately marched out of the kitchen, leaving them alone. To say she was indignant would be but very mildly to express the state of her feelings; she was furious. She knew that the end of her romance had come.
"Well, you had better let Koosje put you to bed, and we will see what can be done for you in the morning." "Am I to make up a bed?" Koosje asked, following him along the passage. The professor wheeled round and faced her. "She had better sleep in the guest room," he said, thoughtfully, regardless of the cold which struck to his slippered feet from the marble floor.
Could the lady give her something to eat? she asked; they had had nothing during the day, and the little ones were almost famished. Koosje, who was very charitable, lifted a tray of large, plain buns, and was about to give her some, when her eyes fell upon the poor beggar's faded face, and she exclaimed: "Truide!" Truide, for it was she, looked up in startled surprise.
Ah, professor, but it is a vile, venomous viper that we have been warming in our bosoms!" "I must beg, Koosje," said the old gentleman, sedately, "that you will exonerate me from any such proceeding. If you remember rightly, I was altogether against your plan for keeping her in the house." He could not resist giving her that little dig, kind of heart as he was.
So brightly the happy days slipped by, when suddenly a change was effected in the professor's household which made, as a matter of course, somewhat of a change in Koosje's life. It came about in this wise. Koosje had been on an errand for the professor, one that had kept her out of doors some time, and it happened that the night was bitterly cold; the cold, indeed, was fearful.
However, Koosje told him blushingly that she did not wish to leave him just at present; so he did not trouble himself about the matter. He was a wise man, this old authority on osteology, and quoted oftentimes, "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."
Just at first Koosje noticed nothing. She herself was of so faithful a nature that an idea, a suspicion, of Jan's faithlessness never entered her mind. When the girl laughed and blushed and dimpled and smiled, when she cast her great blue eyes at the big young fellow, Koosje only thought how pretty she was, and it was must a thousand pities she had not been born a great lady.
So the courtship sped smoothly on, seeming for once to contradict the truth of the old saying, "The course of true love never did run smooth." The course of their love did, of a truth, run marvellously smooth indeed. Koosje, if a trifle coy, was pleasant and sweet; Jan as fine a fellow as ever waited round a corner on a cold winter night.
The professor was old; the professor was wholly given up to his profession, which he jokingly called his sweetheart; and, though he cut half of his acquaintances in the street through inattention and the shortness of his sight, he had eyes in his head, and upon occasions could use them. He therefore repeated the question. "Very well dressed indeed, professor," returned Koosje, promptly.
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