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.