In the late harvest Martin Cosgrave carried up all the little sticks of furniture from his cabin and put it in the building.  Then he sent for Ellen Miscal.  When the woman came she looked about the place in amazement.

“Well, of all the sights in the world!” she exclaimed.

Martin Cosgrave was irritated at the woman’s attitude.

“We’ll have to make the best of it,” he said, looking at the furniture.  “I will be marrying Rose Dempsey in the town some days after she lands.”

“Rose would never like the suddenness of that,” her aunt protested.  “She can be staying with me and marrying from my house.

“I saw the priest about it,” Martin Cosgrave said impatiently.  “I will have my way, Ellen Miscal.  Rose Dempsey will come up to Kilbeg my wife.  We will come in the gate together, we will walk in to the building together.  I will have my way.”

Martin Cosgrave spoke of having his way in the impassioned voice of the fanatic, of his home-coming with his bride in the half-dreamy voice of the visionary.

“Have your way, Martin, have your way,” the woman said.  “And,” she added, rising, “I will be bringing up a few things to put into your house.”

III

Martin Cosgrave spent three days in the town waiting the arrival of Rose Dempsey.  The boat was late.  He haunted the railway station, with hungry eyes scanned the passengers as each train steamed in.  His blood was on fire in his veins for those three days.  What peace could a man have who was waiting to get back to his building and to have Rose Dempsey going back with him, his wife?

Sometimes he would sit down on the railway bench on the platform, staring down at the ground, smiling to himself.  What a surprise he had in store for Rose!  What would he say to her first?  Would he say anything of the building?  No, he would say nothing at all of the building until they drove across the bridge and right up to the gate!  “Rose,” he would then say, “do you remember the hill—­the place under the beech trees?” She was sure to remember that place.  It was there they had spent so much time, there he had first found her lips, there they had quarrelled!  And Rose would look up to that old place and see the building!  What would she think?  Would she feel about it as he felt himself?  She would, she would!  What sort of look would come into her face?  And what would he be able to tell her about it at all?...  He would say nothing at all about it; that would be the best way!  They would say nothing to each other, but walk in the gate and up the drive across the hill, the hill they often ran across in the old days!  They would be quite silent, and walk into the house silently.  The building, too, would be silent, and he would take her from one room to another in silence, and when she had seen everything he would look into her eyes and say, “Well?” It would be all so like a wonderful story, a day of magic!...