"haven't they shirts or gowns, or some other sort of needling?"

"Those things they make themselves," answered the widow; "but this
binding is heavy work, and they give it to me. The blankets are coarse,
you see, but they hang well in the doorway."

"Confound the people of Barnbury!" cried the baker. "Every one of them
would hang well in a doorway, if I had the doing of it. And so you
can't afford a Christmas, Widow Monk?"

"No," said she, setting herself to work on her horse-blanket, "not this
year. When I came to Barnbury, baker, I thought I might do well, but I
have not done well."

"Did not your husband leave you anything?" he asked.

"My husband was a sailor," said she, "and he went down with his brig,
the _Mistletoe_, three years ago, and all that he left me is gone,
baker."

It was time for the baker to open his shop, and he went away, and as he
walked home snow-drops and tear-drops were all mixed together on his
face.

"I couldn't do this sort of thing before her," he said, "and I am glad
it was time to go and open my shop."

That night the baker did all his regular work, but not a finger did he
put to any Christmas order. The next day, at supper-time, he went out
for a walk.

On the way he said to himself, "If she is going to skip Christmas, and
I am going to skip Christmas, why should we not skip it together? That
would truly be most fit and gladsome, and it would serve Barnbury
aright. I'll go in and lay it before her."

The Widow Monk was at supper, and when she asked him to take a cup of
tea, he put down his hat, unwound his woollen comforter, and took off
his overcoat. When he set down his empty cup he told her that he, too,
had made up his mind to skip Christmas, and he told her why, and then
he proposed that they should skip it together.

Now, the Widow Monk forgot to ask him to take a second cup of tea, and
she turned as red as the binding she had put on the horse-blankets.
The baker pushed aside the teacups, leaned over the table, and pressed
his suit very hard.

When the time came for him to open his shop she said that she would
think about the matter, and that he might come again.

The next day the sun shone golden, the snow shone silvery, and Barnbury
was like a paradise to the good baker. For the Widow Monk had told him
he might come again, and that was almost the same thing as telling him
that he and she would skip Christmas together! And not a finger, so
far, had he put to any