he pulled out the wooden box. It had not
been opened since he had fetched it from the far town. He held his
breath as he threw open the lid. There they lay, the half-forgotten
symbols of his old life. Worn mallets, chisels, the head of a broken hod
with the plaster still caked into it, a short broad shovel for mixing
mortar, a trowel, a spirit level, a plumb, all wrapped loosely in a worn
leather apron. He took the mallets in his hand and turned them about
with the quick little jerks that came so naturally to him. Strength for
the work had come into his arms. All the old ambitions which he thought
had been stifled with his early manhood sprang to life again.

As he lay in his bed that night Martin Cosgrave felt himself turning
over and over again the words in the letter which Rose Dempsey had sent
to her aunt, Ellen Miscal, from America. "Tell Martin Cosgrave," the
letter read, "that I will be back home in Kilbeg by the end of the
spring. If he has no wish for any other girl I am willing to settle
down." Beyond the announcement that her sister Sheela would be with her
for a holiday, the letter "brought no other account." But what an
account it had brought to Martin Cosgrave! The fields understood--the
building would proclaim.

Early in the morning Martin Cosgrave went down to Ellen Miscal to tell
her what to put in the letter that was going back to Rose Dempsey in
America. Martin Cosgrave walked heavily into the house and stood with
his back against the dresser. He turned the soft black hat about in his
hands nervously and talked like one who was speaking sacred words.

"Tell her," he said, "that Martin Cosgrave had no thought for any other
person beyond herself. Tell her to be coming back to Kilbeg. Tell her
not to come until the late harvest."

Ellen Miscal, who sat over the sheet of writing paper on the table,
looked up quickly as he spoke the words. As she did so she was conscious
of the new animation that vivified the idealistic face of Martin
Cosgrave. But he did not give her time to question him.

"I have my own reasons for asking her to wait until the harvest," he
said, with some irritation.

He stayed at the dresser until Ellen Miscal had written the letter. He
carried it down to the village and posted it with his own hand, and he
went and came as gravely as if he had been taking part in some solemn
ritual.

II

That day the building was begun. Martin Cosgrave tackled the donkey and
drew a few load