Visit. Much good this did her, for that worthy matron, her sleeves

rolled up, her stout figure swathed in a large apron, gave her one

sharp look and said: "Don't let me hear any more such foolishness,

Scarlett Hamilton. I'll write your mother today and tell her how

much we need you, and I'm sure she'll understand and let you stay.

Now, put on your apron and trot over to Dr. Meade. He needs

someone to help with the dressings."

"Oh, God," thought Scarlett drearily, "that's just the trouble.

Mother will make me stay here and I shall die if I have to smell

these stinks any longer! I wish I was an old lady so I could bully

the young ones, instead of getting bullied--and tell old cats like

Mrs. Merriwether to go to Halifax!"

Yes, she was sick of the hospital, the foul smells, the lice, the

aching, unwashed bodies. If there had ever been any novelty and

romance about nursing, that had worn off a year ago. Besides,

these men wounded in the retreat were not so attractive as the

earlier ones had been. They didn't show the slightest interest in

her and they had very little to say beyond: "How's the fightin'

goin'? What's Old Joe doin' now? Mighty clever fellow, Old Joe."

She didn't think Old Joe a mighty clever fellow. All he had done

was let the Yankees penetrate eighty-eight miles into Georgia. No,

they were not an attractive lot. Moreover, many of them were

dying, dying swiftly, silently, having little strength left to

combat the blood poisoning, gangrene, typhoid and pneumonia which

had set in before they could reach Atlanta and a doctor.

The day was hot and the flies came in the open windows in swarms,

fat lazy flies that broke the spirits of the men as pain could not.

The tide of smells and pain rose and rose about her. Perspiration

soaked through her freshly starched dress as she followed Dr. Meade

about, a basin in her hand.

Oh, the nausea of standing by the doctor, trying not to vomit when

his bright knife cut into mortifying flesh! And oh, the horror of

hearing the screams from the operating ward where amputations were

going on! And the sick, helpless sense of pity at the sight of

tense, white faces of mangled men waiting for the doctor to get to

them, men whose ears were filled with screams, men waiting for the

dreadful words: "I'm sorry, my boy, but that hand will have to

come off. Yes, yes, I know; but look, see those red streaks?

It'll have to come off."

Chloroform was so scarce now it was used only for the worst

amputations and opium was a precious thing, used only to ease the

dying out of life, not the living out of pain. There was no

quinine and no iodine at all. Yes, Scarlett was sick of it all,

and that morning she wished that she, like Melanie, had the excuse

of pregnancy to offer. That was about the only excuse that was

socially acceptable for not nursing these days.

When noon came, she put off her apron and sneaked away from the

hospital while Mrs. Merriwether was busy writing a letter for a

gangling, illiterate mountaineer. Scarlett felt that she could

stand it no longer. It was an imposition on her and she knew that

when the wounded came in on the noon train there would be enough

work to keep her busy until night-fall--and probably without

anything to eat.

She went hastily up the two short blocks to Peachtree Street,

breathing the unfouled air in as deep gulps as her tightly laced

corset would permit. She was standing on the corner, uncertain as

to what she would do next, ashamed to go home to Aunt Pitty's but

determined not to go back to the hospital, when Rhett Butler drove

by.

"You look like the ragpicker's child," he observed, his eyes taking

in the mended lavender calico, streaked with perspiration and

splotched here and there with water which had slopped from the

basin. Scarlett was furious with embarrassment and indignation.

Why did he always notice women's clothing and why was he so rude as

to remark upon her present untidiness?

"I don't want to hear a word out of you. You get out and help me

in and drive me somewhere where nobody will see me. I won't go

back to the hospital if they hang me! My goodness, I didn't start

this war and I don't see any reason why I should be worked to death

and--"

"A traitor to Our Glorious Cause!"

"The pot's calling the kettle black. You help me in. I don't care

where you were going. You're going to take me riding now."

He swung himself out of the carriage to the ground and she suddenly

thought how nice it was to see a man who was whole, who was not

minus eyes or limbs, or white with pain or yellow with malaria, and

who looked well fed and healthy. He was so well dressed too. His

coat and trousers were actually of the same material and they

fitted him, instead of hanging in folds or being almost too tight

for movement. And they were new, not ragged, with dirty bare flesh

and hairy legs showing through. He looked as if he had not a care