"Well, it's most unlikely, and I'm glad it is so. I suppose you have nothing more to say, but you'll tell me when I can help."
"I will," Mackellar promised.
Andrew did not feel inclined to join the others. He strolled into the hall, and found Elsie sitting in a corner with her knitting.
"I stole away to finish this belt," she said. "It's the last of a dozen I promised to let the committee have to-morrow."
"You keep your promises," Andrew replied. "It must be a comfort to feel you're useful, because somebody in the snow and mud will be glad of that warm belt. I begin to wish I'd been taught to knit."
Elsie gave him a sympathetic glance, for there was a hint of bitterness in his tone.
"What is troubling you to-night, Andrew?" she asked gently.
"It is rather hard to explain; a general sense of futility, I think," he answered with a smile. "Did you ever feel that you had come up against a dead wall that you could neither break through nor get over?"
"Yes; I know the feeling well. There is so much that ought to be done and it seems impossible. But what did you want to do?"
Andrew stood beside the hearth, silently watching her for a minute. Her face was quiet but faintly troubled, and although she was looking at the fire and not her knitting, the needles flashed steadily through the wool. Elsie had beautiful hands, but they were capable and strong, and it was not often that she allowed her feelings to interfere with her work.