When evening was over, and he courteously bade him good-night, Felix was dazed, and went home with light steps to his little bed.
As soon as Turk woke him next morning he sprang up with alacrity, and would have been off with the dawn to water his rose-bush, but his father detained him.
"Felix," said he, somewhat sternly, "the master says there's good stuff in you if you'll use it. Come here and eat your breakfast before you go, and let me hear what you have to say for yourself."
"I'll try," was the sum and substance of Felix's talk over his brown bread and milk.
Ten years after this there was a great celebration in the town, for the cathedral was finished. Cannon thundered, bells pealed, and a grand "Te Deum" was chanted to the rolling rhythm of the magnificent organ.
A group of visitors standing near a certain pillar of great beauty were applauding it, while they complimented a young architect and sculptor, whose work it was. His head was modestly bent as he received the commendation, but in a moment he raised it, and turning to a very old man in a professor's gown, whose hair was white with the snows of many winters, he took him by the hand and presented him to the visitors.
"Gentlemen, this is the person you must thank for the pillar. Whatever beauty it possesses, whatever expression it is of truth and religion, is due to my master, whose kindness rescued me from idleness, whose skill directed my youthful efforts."