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.