"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.
"Now," she said, with a pretty smile, "let me do the talking. Don't
look so downcast. When I tell you that you have made me very, very
happy, you should look happy too. When you came to me yesterday, and
said what you said, I thought you were in too much of a hurry; but now
I think that perhaps you were right, and that when people of our age
have anything important to do it is well to do it at once; for in this
world there are all sorts of things continually springing up to prevent
people from being happy."
The whole body of the baker was filled with a great groan, but he
denied it utterance. He must hear what she would say.
"And so I was going to suggest," she continued, "that instead of
skipping Christmas together, we keep it together. That is all the
change I propose to your plan."
Up sprang the baker, so suddenly, that he overset his chair. Now he
must speak. The widow stepped quickly toward the door, and, turning
with a smile, held up her hand.
"Now, good friend," said she, "stop there! At any moment some one might
come in. Hasten back to your shop. At three o'clock I will meet you at
the parson's. That will surely be soon enough, even for such a hasty
man as you."