The recitations went on, the hum of study, the drawl of the lazy ones, and the quick, eager replies of the ambitious. Felix was forgotten.
The boy began to think he had made a mistake. What had he gained by misconduct? Where were the thoughts of the morning under the cathedral windows? How was he fitting himself to work on the beautiful structure which was to be the medium of praise and prayer for multitudes, in the long ages to come? And yet he knew this had been his mother's hope and wish. Was he making good use of the talents God had given him?
He was looking out the window now, watching the lights and shadows on the carved stone of buttress and gable.
The boys were dismissed. He sat down to the extra tasks assigned him. He was hungry, he was miserable, but he plodded on, and finished his work. The master bade him go, and he went, but not home.
He lingered about the cathedral, watching the workmen. Finally he became fascinated by their employment; and taking up their tools, worked out a leaf pattern on a bit of refuse stone. The men left him there. Tired and faint, he sought his mother's resting-place. The rose was drooping for want of water.
"Come, it is time you were home," said a familiar voice.
Felix looked up astonished. It was the master.
"You must go with me to your father. I wish to speak to him."
Felix obeyed. The climax had come. His father was stern and hard, and the master, of course, would have a sorry tale to tell.