Littleton was waiting for her at the church entrance.  She followed him down the nave to the chancel where she listened dreamily to his presentation of the merits of the new decoration.  He seemed inclined to talk, and from this presently branched off to describe with enthusiasm the plates of a French book on interior architecture, which he had recently bought as a long-resisted but triumphant piece of extravagance.  Mechanically, they turned from the chancel and slowly made the round of the aisles.  A short silence succeeded his professional ardor.  His current of thought, in its reversion to home matters, had reminded him afresh of what was perpetually this morning uppermost in his consciousness—­his coming departure.

“Now,” he said, abruptly, “is the most favorable opportunity I shall have, Mrs. Babcock, to tell you how much I am your debtor.  I shan’t despair of our meeting again, for the world is small, and good friends are sure to meet sooner or later.  But the past is secure to me at any rate.  If this church is in some measure what I have dreamed and wished it to be, if my work with all its faults is a satisfaction to myself, I wish you to know how much you have contributed to make it what it is.”

The words were as a melody in Selma’s ears, and she listened greedily.  Littleton paused, as one seriously moved will pause before giving the details of an important announcement.  She, thinking he had finished, interjected with a touch of modesty, “I’m so glad.  But my suggestions and criticisms have not been what I meant them to be.  It was all new to me, you know.”

“Oh, yes.  It hasn’t been so much what you have said in words which has helped me, though that has been always intelligent and uplifting.  I did not look for technical knowledge.  You do not possess that, of course.  There are women in New York who would be able to confuse you with their familiarity with these things.  And yet it is by way of contrast with those very women—­fine women, too, in their way—­that you have been my good angel.  There is no harm in saying that.  I should be an ingrate, surely, if I would not let you know that your sane, simple outlook upon life, your independent vision, has kept my brain clear and my soul free.  I am a better artist and a better man for the experience.  Good-by, and may all happiness attend you.  If once in a while you should find time to write to a struggling architect named Littleton, he will be charmed to do your bidding—­to send you books and to place his professional knowledge at your service.  Good-by.”

He held out his hand with frank effusion.  He was obviously happy at having given utterance to his sense of obligation.  Selma was tingling from head to foot and a womanly blush was on her cheek, though the serious seraph spoke in her words and eyes.  She felt moved to a wave of unreserved speech.