s
pastry, cake, or sweetmeats, or it's meat or fowl to be baked. What a
jolly Christmas they will have without me! Orders from all of them,
every one; all sent in good time for fear of being crowded out."

Here he stopped and ran his eye again over the list.

"No, not all," he said; "the Widow Monk is not here. What is the matter
with her, I wonder. The only person in Barnbury who has not ordered
either pastry, cakes, or sweetmeats; or fowls or meat to be baked. If I
skip Christmas, she'll not mind it, she'll be the only one--the only
one in all Barnbury. Ha! ha!"

The baker wanted some fresh air, and, as this was supper-time for the
whole village, he locked up his shop and went out for a walk. The night
was clear and frosty. He liked this; the air was so different from that
in his bakery.

He walked to the end of the village, and at the last house he stopped.

"It's very odd," said he to himself; "no cakes, pastry, or sweetmeats;
not even poultry or meat to be baked. I'll look in and see about this,"
and he knocked at the door.

The Widow Monk was at supper. She was a plump little body, bright and
cheerful to look upon, and not more than thirty.

"Good evening, baker," said she; "will you sit down and have a cup of
tea?"

The baker put down his hat, unwound his long woollen comforter, took
off his overcoat, and had a cup of tea.

"Now, then," said he to himself, as he put down his cup, "if she'd ask
me to dinner, I wouldn't skip Christmas, and the whole village might
rise up and bless her."

"We are like to have a fine Christmas," he said to her.

"Fine enough for the rest of you," she said, with a smile, "but I shall
not have any Christmas this year."

"How's that?" cried the baker; "no Christmas, Widow Monk?"

"Not this year, baker," said she, and she poured him another cup of
tea. "You see that horse-blanket?" said she, pointing to one thrown
over a chair.

"Bless me, Widow Monk," cried the baker, "you're not intending to set
up a horse?"

"Hardly that," she answered, with a smile, "but that's the very last
horse-blanket that I can get to bind. They don't put them on horses,
but they have them bound with red, and use them for door curtains.
That's all the fashion now, and all the Barnbury folks who can afford
them, have sent them to me to be bound with red. That one is nearly
finished, and there are no more to be bound."

"But haven't the Barnbury folks any more work for you?" cried the
baker;