life.  No graceful but galling attitude of superiority, no polite indifference to her soul-hunger, no disposition to criticise.  And yet he was no less voluble, clever, and spirited than Mrs. Taylor.  She listened with wrapt interest to his easy talk, which was ever grave in tone, despite his pleasant sallies.  He spoke of Benham with quick appreciation of its bustling energy, and let her see that he divined its capacity for greatness.  This led him to refer with kindling eyes to the keen impulse toward education and culture which was animating the younger men and women of the country; to the new beginnings of art, literature, and scientific investigation.  At scarcely a hint from her he told briefly of his past life and his hopes, and fondly mentioned his sister and her present absorption in some history courses for women.

“And you?” he said.  “You are a student, too.  Mrs. Taylor has told me, but I should have guessed it.  Duties even more interesting claim you now, but it is easy to perceive that you have known that other happiness, ‘To scorn delights and live laborious days.’”

His words sounded musical, though the quotation from Lycidas was unfamiliar to her ears.  Her brain was thrilling with the import of all he had told her—­with his allusions to the intellectual and ethical movements of Boston and New York, in which she felt herself by right and with his recognition a partner and peer.

“You were teaching school when you married, I believe?” he added.

“Yes.”

“And before that, if I may ask?”

“I lived at Westfield with my father.  It is a small country town, but we tried to be in earnest.”

“I understand—­I understand.  You grew up among the trees, and the breezes and the brooks, those wonderful wordless teachers.  I envy you, for they give one time to think—­to expand.  I have known only city life myself.  It is stimulating, but one is so easily turned aside from one’s direct purpose.  Do you write at all?”

“Not yet.  But I have wished to.  Some day I shall.  Just now I have too many domestic concerns to—­”

She did not finish, for Babcock’s heavy tread and whistle resounded in the hall and at the next moment he was calling “Selma!”

She felt annoyed at being interrupted, but she divined that it would never do to show it.

“My husband,” she said, and she raised her voice to utter with a sugared dignity which would have done credit to Mrs. Taylor,

“I am in the parlor, Lewis.”

“Enter your chief domestic concern,” said Littleton blithely.  “A happy home is preferable to all the poems and novels in the world.”

Babcock, pushing open the door, which stood ajar, stopped short in his melody.

“This is Mr. Littleton, Lewis.  The architect of our new church.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.”  And by way of accounting for the sudden softening of his brow, Babcock added, “I set you down at first as one of those lightning-rod agents.  There was one here last week who wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”