"Peter," I said—I nearly called him Matthew!—"these are the things that Miggy does not understand. And that she will understand."
He knew. He said nothing; but he knew how it is written.
"Peter," I said, "I suppose Miggy will never have been to your house?"
I knew that she could not have been there.
"Some day soon," I said—"before you go away—ask us to come there. I should like her to sit by your table and look from your window."
For how can one be sure that divine non-interference is always divine?
Peter drew his breath long.
"Would you?" he said; "would you? So many times I've thought maybe that would make her think of me as if I was me."
Yes, that might help. If only Miggy knew how to shake hands as Elfa shook hands with Nicholas Moor, that might help, too. How did it begin, this pride of individualism in a race which does not know its own destiny save as the great relationships, human and divine, can reveal that destiny? But Peter knows! And the hope of the world is that so many do know.