“It is a very good plan indeed, dear guardian, and we could not do better.”
“Sure, little woman?”
Quite sure. I had had a moment’s time to think, since I had urged that duty on myself, and I was quite sure.
“Good,” said my guardian. “It shall be done. Carried unanimously.”
“Carried unanimously,” I repeated, going on with my work.
It was a cover for his book-table that I happened to be ornamenting. It had been laid by on the night preceding my sad journey and never resumed. I showed it to him now, and he admired it highly. After I had explained the pattern to him and all the great effects that were to come out by and by, I thought I would go back to our last theme.
“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