That day the building was begun.  Martin Cosgrave tackled the donkey and drew a few loads of limestone from the nearby quarry.  Some of the neighbours who came his way found him a changed man, a silent man with his eager face set, a man in whose eyes a new light shone, a quiet man of the fields into whose mind a set purpose had come.  He struggled up the road with his donkey-cart, his hand gripping the shaft to hasten the steps of the slow brute, his limbs bent to the hill, his head down at the work.  By the end of the week a pile of grey-blue stones was heaped up on the crest of the hill.  The walls of the fields had been broken down to make a carway.  Late into the night when the donkey had been fed and tethered the neighbours would see Martin Cosgrave moving about the pile of grey-blue stones, sorting and picking, arranging in little groups to have ready to his hands.  “A house he is going to put up on the hill,” they would say, lost in wonder.

The spring came, and with it all the strenuous work on the land.  But Martin Cosgrave went on with the building.  The neighbours shook their heads at the sight of neglect that was gathering about his holding; they said it was flying in the face of Providence when Martin Cosgrave weaned all the lambs from the ewes one day, long before their time, and sold them at the fair to the first bidder that came his way.  Martin Cosgrave did so because he wanted money and was in a hurry to get back to his building.

“What call has a man to be destroying himself like that?” the neighbours asked each other.

Martin Cosgrave knew what the neighbours were saying about him.  But what did he care?  What thought had any of them for the heart of a builder?  What did any of them know beyond putting a spade in the clay and waiting for the seasons to send up growing things from the seed they scattered by their hands?  What did they know about the feel of the rough stone in the hand and the shaping of it to fit into the building, the building that day after day you saw rising up from the ground by the skill of your hand and the art of your mind?  What could they in Kilbeg know of the ship that would plough the ocean in the harvest bearing Rose Dempsey home to him?  For all their ploughing and their sowing, what sort of a place had any of them led a woman into?  They might talk away.  The joy of the builder was his.  The beech trees that made music all day beside the building he was putting up to the sight of all the world had more understanding of him than all the people of the parish.

Martin Cosgrave had no help.  He kept to his work from such an early hour in the morning until such a late hour of the night that the people marvelled at his endurance.  But as the work went on the people would talk about Martin Cosgrave’s building in the fields and tell strangers of it at the markets.  They said that the like of it had never been seen in the countryside.  It was to be “full of little turrets and the finest of fancy porches and a regular sight of bulging windows.”  One day that Martin Cosgrave heard a neighbour speaking about the “bulging windows” he laughed a half-bitter, half-mocking laugh.