His thoughts were so wholly absorbed that he had not remembered the workmen, nor wondered why they had not come back.

After all, most of them lived in the direction of the church, and if they had finished their work late they would very probably go home without returning to the shop.

The chiseller wrapped the crucifix in the old white cloth, and laid it in its plain wooden box, but he did not screw the cover down, merely putting it on loosely so that it could be removed in a moment.

He laid his tools in order, mechanically, as he did every evening, and then he extinguished the light and made his way to the door, carrying the box under his arm.
The boy who alone had remained at work had lighted a tallow candle, and was sitting dangling his heels from his stool as Marzio came out.
"Still here!" exclaimed the artist.
"Eh! You did not tell me to go," answered the lad.
Marzio locked the heavy outer door and crossed over to his house, while the boy went whistling down the street in the dusk.

Slowly the artist mounted the stairs, pondering, as he went, on the many emotions of the day, and at last repeating his conclusion, that he was glad that he had not killed Paolo.
By a change of feeling which he did not wholly realise, he felt for the first time in many years that he would be glad to see his brother alive and well.