“You said, dear guardian, when we spoke of Mr. Woodcourt before Ada left us, that you thought he would give a long trial to another country.  Have you been advising him since?”

“Yes, little woman, pretty often.”

“Has he decided to do so?”

“I rather think not.”

“Some other prospect has opened to him, perhaps?” said I.

“Why—­yes—­perhaps,” returned my guardian, beginning his answer in a very deliberate manner.  “About half a year hence or so, there is a medical attendant for the poor to be appointed at a certain place in Yorkshire.  It is a thriving place, pleasantly situated—­streams and streets, town and country, mill and moor—­and seems to present an opening for such a man.  I mean a man whose hopes and aims may sometimes lie (as most men’s sometimes do, I dare say) above the ordinary level, but to whom the ordinary level will be high enough after all if it should prove to be a way of usefulness and good service leading to no other.  All generous spirits are ambitious, I suppose, but the ambition that calmly trusts itself to such a road, instead of spasmodically trying to fly over it, is of the kind I care for.  It is Woodcourt’s kind.”

“And will he get this appointment?” I asked.

“Why, little woman,” returned my guardian, smiling, “not being an oracle, I cannot confidently say, but I think so.  His reputation stands very high; there were people from that part of the country in the shipwreck; and strange to say, I believe the best man has the best chance.  You must not suppose it to be a fine endowment.  It is a very, very commonplace affair, my dear, an appointment to a great amount of work and a small amount of pay; but better things will gather about it, it may be fairly hoped.”

“The poor of that place will have reason to bless the choice if it falls on Mr. Woodcourt, guardian.”

“You are right, little woman; that I am sure they will.”

We said no more about it, nor did he say a word about the future of Bleak House.  But it was the first time I had taken my seat at his side in my mourning dress, and that accounted for it, I considered.

I now began to visit my dear girl every day in the dull dark corner where she lived.  The morning was my usual time, but whenever I found I had an hour or so to spare, I put on my bonnet and bustled off to Chancery Lane.  They were both so glad to see me at all hours, and used to brighten up so when they heard me opening the door and coming in (being quite at home, I never knocked), that I had no fear of becoming troublesome just yet.

On these occasions I frequently found Richard absent.  At other times he would be writing or reading papers in the cause at that table of his, so covered with papers, which was never disturbed.  Sometimes I would come upon him lingering at the door of Mr. Vholes’s office.  Sometimes I would meet him in the neighbourhood lounging about and biting his nails.  I often met him wandering in Lincoln’s Inn, near the place where I had first seen him, oh how different, how different!