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 Christmas order.

About noon of that day, he was so happy, was that good baker, that he went into the village inn to have a taste of something hot.  In the inn he found a tall man, with rings in his ears.  A sun-browned man he was and a stranger, who had just arrived and wanted his dinner.  He was also a handsome man, and a sailor, as any one could see.

As the baker entered, the tall man said to the inn-keeper:—­

“Is there a Mrs. Monk now living in this village?”

“Truly there is,” said the inn-keeper, “and I will show you her house.  But you’ll have your dinner first?”

“Aye, aye,” said the stranger, “for I’ll not go to her hungry.”

The baker asked for nothing hot, but turned him and went out into the cold, bleak world.  As he closed the door behind him he heard the stranger say:—­

“On the brig Mistletoe.”

It was not needed that the baker should hear these words; already he knew everything.  His soul had told him everything in the moment he saw the sun-browned man with the rings in his ears!

On went the baker, his head bowed on his breast, the sun shining like tawdry brass, the snow glistening like a slimy, evil thing.  He knew not where he was going; he knew not what he intended to do, but on he went.

Presently a door opened, and he was called.

“I saw you coming,” said the Widow Monk, “and I did not wish to keep you waiting in the cold,” and she held open the door for him.

When he had entered, and had seated himself before the fire, she said to him:—­

“Truly, you look chilled; you need something hot”; and she prepared it for him.

The baker took the hot beverage.  This much of good he might at least allow himself.  He drank it, and he felt warmed.

“And now,” said the Widow Monk, seating herself on the other side of the fire-place, “I shall speak as plainly to you as you spoke to me.  You spoke very well yesterday, and I have been thinking about it ever since, and have made up my mind.  You are alone in the world, and I am alone; and if you don’t wish to be alone any longer, why, I don’t wish to be either, and so—­perhaps—­it will not be necessary to skip Christmas this year.”

Alas for the poor baker!  Here was paradise seen through a barred gate!  But the baker’s heart was moved; even in the midst of his misery he could not but be grateful for the widow’s words.  There flashed into his eyes a sudden brightness.  He held out his hands.  He would thank her first, and tell her afterwards.

The widow took his hands, lowered her bright eyes and blushed.  Then she suddenly withdrew herself and stood up.