Not that she had intended to tell him at first; she was only three and twenty, and, though Jan van der Welde was as fine a fellow as could be seen in Utrecht, and had good wages and something put by, Koosje was by no means inclined to rush headlong into matrimony with undue hurry.  It was more pleasant to live in the professor’s good house, to have delightful walks arm in arm with Jan under the trees in the Baan or round the Singels, parting under the stars with many a lingering word and promise to meet again.  It was during one of those very partings that the professor suddenly became aware, as he walked placidly home, of the change that had come into Koosje’s life.

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.”

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.  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.  The air had that damp rawness so noticeable in Dutch climate, a thick mist overhung the city, and a drizzling rain came down with a steady persistence such as quickly soaked through the stoutest and thickest garments.  The streets were well-nigh empty.  The great thoroughfare, the Oude Gracht, was almost deserted, and as Koosje hurried along the Meinerbroederstraat—­for she had a second commission there—­she drew her great shawl more tightly round her, muttering crossly, “What weather! yesterday so warm, to-day so cold.  ’Tis enough to give one the fever.”

She delivered her message, and ran on through Oude Kerkhoff as fast as her feet could carry her, when, just as she turned the corner into the Domplein, a fierce gust of wind, accompanied by a blinding shower of rain, assailed her; her foot caught against something soft and heavy, and she fell.

“Bless us!” she ejaculated, blankly.  “What fool has left a bundle out on the path on such a night?  Pitch dark, with half the lamps out, and rain and mist enough to blind one.”

She gathered herself up, rubbing elbows and knees vigorously, casting the while dark glances at the obnoxious bundle which had caused the disaster.  Just then the wind was lulled, the lamp close at hand gave out a steady light, which shed its rays through the fog upon Koosje and the bundle, from which, to the girl’s horror and dismay, came a faint moan.  Quickly she drew nearer, when she perceived that what she had believed to be a bundle was indeed a woman, apparently in the last stage of exhaustion.