Above the doorway,
under a low-gabled roof, hung a cracked and mouldering sign-board,
bearing the words "Ann Holland, Saddler." All the letters were faded,
yet a keen eye might detect that the name "Ann" was more distinct than
the others, as if painted at a later date. Within the shop an old
journeyman was always to be seen, busy at his trade, and taking no heed
of any customer coming in, unless the ringing of a bell on the lower
half of the door remained unnoticed, when he would shamble away to call
his mistress. In an evening after the twilight had set in, and it was
too dark for her own ornamental stitching of the saddlery. Ann Holland
was often to be found leaning over the half-door of her shop, and ready
to exchange a friendly good-night, or a more lengthy conversation, with
her townsfolk as they passed to and fro. She was a rosy, cheery-looking
woman, still under fifty, with a pleasant voice and a friendly word for
every one, and it was well known that she had refused several offers of
marriage, some of them very eligible for a person of her station.
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