Passing down Church Street, the old bell rang out the hour.  All day he had fancied its tone had gathered a lighter, more delicate sweetness with every chime.  The Christ-child was coming; the world held up its hands adoring; all that was needed of men was to love Him, and rejoice.  Its tone was different now:  there was a brutal cry of pain in the ponderous voice that shook the air,—­a voice saying something to God, unintelligible to him.  He thrust out the thought of that woman with a curse:  he had so wanted to have a good day, to feel how great and glad the world was, and to come up close to Christ with Jinny and the baby!  He did soon forget the vileness there behind, going down the streets; they were so cozy and friendly-hearted, the parlor-windows opening out red and cheerfully, as is the custom in Southern and Western towns; they said “Happy Christmas” to every passer-by.  The owners, going into the houses, had a hearty word for Adam.  “Well, Craig, how goes it?” or, “Fine, frosty weather, Sir.”  It quite heartened the cobbler.  He made shoes for most of these people, and whether men are free and equal or not, any cobbler will have a reverence for the man he has shod.

So Adam trotted on, his face a little redder, and his stooped chest, especially next the basket, in quite a glow.  There she was, clear out in the snow, waiting for him by the curb-stone.  How she took hold of the basket, and Adam made believe she was carrying the whole weight of it!  How the fire-light struck out furiously through the Turkey-red curtains, so as to show her to him quicker!—­to show him the snug coffee-colored dress, and the bits of cherry ribbon at her throat,—­to show him how the fair curly hair was tucked back to leave the rosy ears bare he thought so dainty,—­to show him how young she was, how faded and worn and tired-out she was, how hard the years had been,—­to show him how his great love for her was thickening the thin blood with life, making a child out of the thwarted woman,—­to show him—­this more than all, this that his soul watched for, breathless, day and night—­that she loved him, that she knew nothing better than the ignorant, loving heart, the horny hands that had taken her hungry fate to hold, and made of it a color and a fragrance.  “Christmas is coming, little woman!” Of course it was.  If it had not taken the whole world into its embrace yet, there it was compacted into a very glow of love and warmth and coziness in that snuggest of rooms, and in that very Jinny and Baby,—­Christmas itself,—­especially when he kissed her, and she blushed and laughed, the tears in her eyes, and went fussing for that queer roll of white flannel.