CHAPTER XII
A FALSE ALARM
Heavy rains lashed the windows at Appleyard and a wild west wind buffeted the house. Between the gusts one could hear the wail of storm-tossed trees and the distant roar of the flood tide foaming across the Solway sands. It was, however, warm and bright within the thick granite walls, and Andrew lounged in a corner of the billiard-room after dinner, watching Elsie knit. She was making a soldier's woolen belt, and he noted the precise neatness of the work. Elsie was conscientious in all she did, but he thought this view of the matter did not go far enough. The care with which she linked up the stitches was deepened by love.
"It will be a lucky man who gets the belt," he remarked. "We must hope he isn't by any chance one of our enemies."
Elsie looked up with a smile.
"After all, I wouldn't mind that very much, so long as he needed it. It must be dreadful to lie out, cold and hungry, in the snow."
"It is," said Andrew. "I've done something of the kind. Of course you're right; but ordinary people would rather help their own side, particularly when the other seems to be singularly unchivalrous."
He stopped as he saw a tinge of color creep into her face; but she quietly met his apologetic glance.
"I know you didn't mean to hurt. I do remember sometimes, that, in a sense, I belong to the other side."
"You can't help that, and you're Scottish to the backbone in all that matters."
Elsie's eyes twinkled.