By John Strange Winter
Her name was Koosje van Kampen, and she lived in Utrecht, that most quaint of
quaint cities, the Venice of the North.
All her life had been passed under the shadow of the grand old Dom Kerk; she
had played bo-peep behind the columns and arcades of the ruined, moss-grown
cloisters; had slipped up and fallen down the steps leading to the grachts; had
once or twice, in this very early life, been fished out of those same slimy,
stagnant waters; had wandered under the great lindens in the Baan, and gazed
curiously up at the stork's nest in the tree by the Veterinary School; had pattered
about the hollow-sounding streets in her noisy wooden klompen; had danced and
laughed, had quarrelled and wept, and fought and made friends again, to the
tune of the silver chimes high up in the Dom—chimes that were sometimes old
Nederlandsche hymns, sometimes Mendelssohn's melodies and tender "Lieder
ohne Worte."
But that was ever so long ago, and now she had left her romping childhood
behind her, and had become a maid-servant—a very dignified and aristocratic
maid-servant indeed—with no less a sum than eight pounds ten a year in wages.
She lived in the house of a professor, who dwelt on the Munster Kerkhoff, one of
the most aristocratic parts of that wonderfully aristocratic city; and once or twice
every week you might have seen her, if you had been there to see, busily
engaged in washing the red tile and blue slate pathway in front of the professor's
house. You would have seen that she was very pleasant to look at, this Koosje,
very comely and clean, whether she happened to be very busy, or whether it had
been Sunday, and, with her very best gown on, she was out for a promenade in
the Baan, after duly going to service as regularly as the Sabbath dawned in the
grand old Gothic choir of the cathedral.
During the week she wore always the same costume as does every other servant
in the country: a skirt of black stuff, short enough to show a pair of very neat-set
and well-turned ankles, clad in cloth shoes and knitted stockings that showed no
wrinkles; over the skirt a bodice and a kirtle of lilac, made with a neatly gathered
frilling about her round brown throat; above the frilling five or six rows of
unpolished garnet beads fastened by a massive clasp of gold filigree, and on her
head a spotless white cap tied with a neat bow under her chin—as neat, let me
tell you, as an Englishman's tie at a party.
But it was on Sunday that Koosje shone forth in all the glory of a black gown and
her jewellery—with great ear-rings to match the clasp of her necklace, and a
heavy chain and cross to match that again, and one or two rings; while on her
head she wore an immense cap, much too big to put a bonnet over, though for
walking she was most particular to have gloves.
Then, indeed, she was a young person to be treated with respect, and with
respect she was undoubtedly treated. As she passed along the quaint,
resounding streets, many a head was turned to look after her; but Koosje went
