She was crying with strangled sobbings, her face in her thin hands.
Peter's arm was put gently about her shoulders, comforting her.
"No, you won't, Rhoda. Rhoda dear, you won't be carried away, because I shall be here, holding you. Is that any help at all?"
He felt her relax beneath his arm and lean back against him; he heard her whisper, "Yes; oh, yes. If I can hold onto you, Peter, I shall feel safe."
"Hold on, then," said Peter, "as tight as you like."
She looked up at him with wet eyes and he felt the claim and the appeal of her piercing straight into his heart.
"I could care ..." she whispered. "Are you sure, Peter?"
His arm tightened about her. He hadn't meant precisely what she had understood him to mean; at least, he hadn't translated his purpose to help her to the uttermost into a specified relation, as she was doing; but if the purpose, to be fulfilled, had to be so translated, he was ready for that too. So he said, "Quite sure, Rhoda. I want to be the most to you that you'll let me be," and her face was hidden against his coat, and her tension relaxed utterly, and she murmured, "Oh, I can be safe like that."
So they sat in silence together, between the lit sanctuary and the desolate night, and heard, as from a long way off, the sound of chanting:—
"Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace: according to thy word;