When this letter was despatched, Hepburn began to wonder what he had hoped for in writing it.  He knew that Daniel could write—­or rather that he could make strange hieroglyphics, the meaning of which puzzled others and often himself; but these pen-and-ink signs were seldom employed by Robson, and never, so far as Philip knew, for the purpose of letter-writing.  But still he craved so for news of Sylvia—­even for a sight of paper which she had seen, and perhaps touched—­that he thought all his trouble about the plough (to say nothing of the one-and-twopence postage which he had prepaid in order to make sure of his letter’s reception in the frugal household at Haytersbank) well lost for the mere chance of his uncle’s caring enough for the intelligence to write in reply, or even to get some friend to write an answer; for in such case, perhaps, Philip might see her name mentioned in some way, even though it was only that she sent her duty to him.

But the post-office was dumb; no letter came from Daniel Robson.  Philip heard, it is true, from his employers pretty frequently on business; and he felt sure they would have named it, if any ill had befallen his uncle’s family, for they knew of the relationship and of his intimacy there.  They generally ended their formal letters with as formal a summary of Monkshaven news; but there was never a mention of the Robsons, and that of itself was well, but it did not soothe Philip’s impatient curiosity.  He had never confided his attachment to his cousin to any one, it was not his way; but he sometimes thought that if Coulson had not taken his present appointment to a confidential piece of employment so ill, he would have written to him and asked him to go up to Haytersbank Farm, and let him know how they all were.

All this time he was transacting the affair on which he had been sent, with great skill; and, indeed, in several ways, he was quietly laying the foundation for enlarging the business in Monkshaven.  Naturally grave and quiet, and slow to speak, he impressed those who saw him with the idea of greater age and experience than he really possessed.  Indeed, those who encountered him in London, thought he was absorbed in the business of money-making.  Yet before the time came when he could wind up affairs and return to Monkshaven, he would have given all he possessed for a letter from his uncle, telling him something about Sylvia.  For he still hoped to hear from Robson, although he knew that he hoped against reason.  But we often convince ourselves by good argument that what we wish for need never have been expected; and then, at the end of our reasoning, find that we might have saved ourselves the trouble, for that our wishes are untouched, and are as strong enemies to our peace of mind as ever.  Hepburn’s baulked hope was the Mordecai sitting in Haman’s gate; all his success in his errand to London, his well-doing in worldly affairs, was tasteless, and gave him no pleasure, because of this blank and void of all intelligence concerning Sylvia.