Veils, never handled reins without gloves to protect the white skin

of her dimpled hands. Yet here she was exposed to the sun in a

broken-down wagon with a broken-down horse, dirty, sweaty, hungry,

helpless to do anything but plod along at a snail's pace through a

deserted land. What a few short weeks it had been since she was

safe and secure! What a little while since she and everyone else

had thought that Atlanta could never fall, that Georgia could never

be invaded. But the small cloud which appeared in the northwest

four months ago had blown up into a mighty storm and then into a

screaming tornado, sweeping away her world, whirling her out of her

sheltered life, and dropping her down in the midst of this still,

haunted desolation.

Was Tara still standing? Or was Tara also gone with the wind which

had swept through Georgia?

She laid the whip on the tired horse's back and tried to urge him

on while the waggling wheels rocked them drunkenly from side to

side.

There was death in the air. In the rays of the late afternoon sun,

every well-remembered field and forest grove was green and still,

with an unearthly quiet that struck terror to Scarlett's heart.

Every empty, shell-pitted house they had passed that day, every

gaunt chimney standing sentinel over smoke-blackened ruins, had

frightened her more. They had not seen a living human being or

animal since the night before. Dead men and dead horses, yes, and

dead mules, lying by the road, swollen, covered with flies, but

nothing alive. No far-off cattle lowed, no birds sang, no wind

waved the trees. Only the tired plop-plop of the horse's feet and

the weak wailing of Melanie's baby broke the stillness.

The countryside lay as under some dread enchantment. Or worse

still, thought Scarlett with a chill, like the familiar and dear

face of a mother, beautiful and quiet at last, after death agonies.

She felt that the once-familiar woods were full of ghosts.

Thousands had died in the fighting near Jonesboro. They were here

in these haunted woods where the slanting afternoon sun gleamed

eerily through unmoving leaves, friends and foes, peering at her in

her rickety wagon, through eyes blinded with blood and red dust--

glazed, horrible eyes.

"Mother! Mother!" she whispered. If she could only win to Ellen!

If only, by a miracle of God, Tara were still standing and she

could drive up the long avenue of trees and go into the house and

see her mother's kind, tender face, could feel once more the soft

capable hands that drove out fear, could clutch Ellen's skirts and

bury her face in them. Mother would know what to do. She wouldn't

let Melanie and her baby die. She would drive away all ghosts and

fears with her quiet "Hush, hush." But Mother was ill, perhaps

dying.

Scarlett laid the whip across the weary rump of the horse. They

must go faster! They had crept along this never-ending road all

the long hot day. Soon it would be night and they would be alone

in this desolation that was death. She gripped the reins tighter

with hands that were blistered and slapped them fiercely on the

horse's back, her aching arms burning at the movement.

If she could only reach the kind arms of Tara and Ellen and lay

down her burdens, far too heavy for her young shoulders--the dying

woman, the fading baby, her own hungry little boy, the frightened

negro, all looking to her for strength, for guidance, all reading

in her straight back courage she did not possess and strength which

had long since failed.

The exhausted horse did not respond to the whip or reins but

shambled on, dragging his feet, stumbling on small rocks and

swaying as if ready to fall to his knees. But, as twilight came,

they at last entered the final lap of the long journey. They

rounded the bend of the wagon path and turned into the main road.

Tara was only a mile away!

Here loomed up the dark bulk of the mock-orange hedge that marked

the beginning of the MacIntosh property. A little farther on,

Scarlett drew rein in front of the avenue of oaks that led from the

road to old Angus MacIntosh's house. She peered through the

gathering dusk down the two lines of ancient trees. All was dark.

Not a single light showed in the house or in the quarters.

Straining her eyes in the darkness she dimly discerned a sight

which had grown familiar through that terrible day--two tall

chimneys, like gigantic tombstones towering above the ruined second

floor, and broken unlit windows blotching the walls like still,

blind eyes.

"Hello!" she shouted, summoning all her strength. "Hello!"

Prissy clawed at her in a frenzy of fright and Scarlett, turning,

saw that her eyes were rolling in her head.

"Doan holler, Miss Scarlett! Please, doan holler agin!" she

whispered, her voice shaking. "Dey ain' no tellin' WHUT mout

answer!"

"Dear God!" thought Scarlett, a shiver running through her. "Dear

God! She's right. Anything might come out of there!"

She flapped the reins and urged the horse forward. The sight of

the MacIntosh house had pricked the last bubble of hope remaining

to her. It was burned, in ruins, deserted, as were all the

plantations she had passed that day. Tara lay only half a mile

away, on the same road, right in the path of the army. Tara was

leveled, too! She would find only the blackened bricks, starlight

shining through the roofless walls, Ellen and Gerald gone, the

girls gone, Mammy gone, the negroes gone, God knows where, and this

hideous stillness over everything.

Why had she come on this fool's errand, against all common sense,

dragging Melanie and her child? Better that they had died in

Atlanta than, tortured by this day of burning sun and jolting

wagon, to die in the silent ruins of Tara.

But Ashley had left Melanie in her care. "Take care of her." Oh,

that beautiful, heartbreaking day when he had kissed her good-by

before he went away forever! "You'll take care of her, won't you?

Promise!" And she had promised. Why had she ever bound herself

with such a promise, doubly binding now that Ashley was gone? Even