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; "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.