“And he left you nothing?” Koosje asked.
“We had had nothing for a long time,” Truide replied, in her sad, crushed voice. “We didn’t get on very well; he soon got tired of me.”
“That was a weakness of his,” remarked Koosje, drily.
“We lost five little ones, one after another,” Truide continued. “And Jan was fond of them, and somehow it seemed to sour him. As for me, I was sorry enough at the time, Heaven knows, but it was as well. But Jan said it seemed as if a curse had fallen upon us; he began to wish you back again, and to blame me for having come between you. And then he took to genever, and then to wish for something stronger; so at last every stiver went for absinthe, and once or twice he beat me, and then he died.”
“Just as well,” muttered Koosje, under her breath.
“It is very good of you to have fed and warmed us,” Truide went on, in her faint, complaining tones. “Many a one would have let me starve, and I should have deserved it. It is very good of you and we are grateful; but ‘tis time we were going, Koosje and Mina;” then added, with a shake of her head, “but I don’t know where.”
“Oh, you’d better stay,” said Koosje, hurriedly. “I live in this big house by myself, and I dare say you’ll be more useful in the shop than Yanke—if your tongue is as glib as it used to be, that is. You know some English, too, don’t you?”
“A little,” Truide answered, eagerly.
“And after all,” Koosje said, philosophically, shrugging her shoulders, “you saved me from the beatings and the starvings and the rest. I owe you something for that. Why, if it hadn’t been for you I should have been silly enough to have married him.”
And then she went back to her shop, saying to herself: