After breakfast, old Noah, the gardener, busied himself in filling in the furrow, and old Simmonds, who called himself a builder and fencing contractor, came round and, after mixing a little mortar on a board, laid the doorstep back, only a trifle askew, in its old place.
“There’s your doorstep, Miss,” he said, straightening his back as Anne opened the front door and stood on the threshold prepared for walking. “There’s your doorstep; no one will ever shift that again.”
Simmonds was right, for Anne lacked the courage to tell him to take it up and set it straight.
“May I step on it?” she asked.
“Ay, he’ll bear your weight, Miss,” said the old man blinking, and to prove his words he stepped on to the doorstep himself, blocking her path while he stamped once or twice with his hobnailed boots.
“Is that firm enough for you, Miss?” he asked, speaking with melancholy pride, and then standing aside for her to walk on it herself.
“Yes, that seems all right, Simmonds,” she said, stepping on to the stone, and was aware as she spoke that her words were meaningless, for why should the old man be so proud of the force of gravity which kept the doorstep where it lay? Why should she have to give him credit for it?
“I was going to speak to your father, Miss, about the sills,” said Simmonds.
“About what?”
“It’s a long time since they were painted, and the wood is perishing. I thought perhaps your father might like me to estimate for them.”