"Do nothing," I said, gently, and yet with some severity. "If you do anything do just as I've said. That's all we've got to know for the present."
"But I must see him. Now that I've got used to doing it—"
"If you must see him, dear Mrs. Brokenshire, you will."
"Shall I? Will you promise me?"
"I don't have to promise you. It's the way life works. If we only trust to events—and to whatever it is that guides events—and—and do right—I must repeat it—then the thing that ought to be will shape its course—"
"Ah, but if it doesn't?"
"In that case we can know that it oughtn't to be."
"I don't care whether it ought to be or not, so long as I can go on seeing him—somewhere."
I had enough sympathy with her to say:
"Yes, but don't plan for it. Let it take care of itself and happen in some natural way. Isn't it by mapping out things for ourselves that we often thwart the good that would otherwise have come to us? I remember reading somewhere of a lady who wrote of herself that she had been healed of planning, and spoke of it as a real cure. That struck me as so sensible. Life—not to use a greater word—knows much better what's good for us than we do ourselves."