Yet they gave him a fresh greeting, almost one in which surprise was blended, when he came to his lodgings.  Even Alice seemed gratified by his spending this first evening with them, as if she had thought it might have been otherwise.  Weary though he was, he exerted himself to talk and to relate what he had done and seen in London, as far as he could without breaking confidence with his employers.  It was something to see the pleasure he gave to his auditors, although there were several mixed feelings in their minds to produce the expression of it which gratified him.  Coulson was sorry for his former ungenerous reception of the news that Philip was going to London; Hester and her mother each secretly began to feel as if this evening was like more happy evenings of old, before the Robsons came to Haytersbank Farm; and who knows what faint delicious hopes this resemblance may not have suggested?

While Philip, restless and excited, feeling that he could not sleep, was glad to pass away the waking hours that must intervene before to-morrow night, at times, he tried to make them talk of what had happened in Monkshaven during his absence, but all had gone on in an eventless manner, as far as he could gather; if they knew of anything affecting the Robsons, they avoided speaking of it to him; and, indeed, how little likely were they ever to have heard their names while he was away?

CHAPTER XX

LOVED AND LOST

Philip walked towards the Robsons’ farm like a man in a dream, who has everything around him according to his wish, and yet is conscious of a secret mysterious inevitable drawback to his enjoyment.  Hepburn did not care to think—­would not realize what this drawback, which need not have been mysterious in his case, was.

The May evening was glorious in light and shadow.  The crimson sun warmed up the chilly northern air to a semblance of pleasant heat.  The spring sights and sounds were all about; the lambs were bleating out their gentle weariness before they sank to rest by the side of their mothers; the linnets were chirping in every bush of golden gorse that grew out of the stone walls; the lark was singing her good-night in the cloudless sky, before she dropped down to her nest in the tender green wheat; all spoke of brooding peace—­but Philip’s heart was not at peace.

Yet he was going to proclaim his good fortune.  His masters had that day publicly announced that Coulson and he were to be their successors, and he had now arrived at that longed-for point in his business, when he had resolved to openly speak of his love to Sylvia, and might openly strive to gain her love.  But, alas! the fulfilment of that wish of his had lagged sadly behind.  He was placed as far as he could, even in his most sanguine moments, have hoped to be as regarded business, but Sylvia was as far from his attainment as ever—­nay, farther.  Still the great obstacle was removed in Kinraid’s