"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 - yes - perhaps," returned my guardian, in a very deliberate manner. "In about six months, a doctor for the poor is to be appointed in Yorkshire. It is a thriving place, pleasantly situated - 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 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. The ambition that calmly trusts itself to such a road is the kind I care for. It is Woodcourt's kind."
"And will he get this appointment?"
