It could have grown so steep since she saw it last. The horse

would never make it with the heavy load.

Wearily she dismounted and took the animal by the bridle.

"Get out, Prissy," she commanded, "and take Wade. Either carry him

or make him walk. Lay the baby by Miss Melanie."

Wade broke into sobs and whimperings from which Scarlett could only

distinguish: "Dark--dark--Wade fwightened!"

"Miss Scarlett, Ah kain walk. Mah feets done blistered an' dey's

thoo mah shoes, an' Wade an' me doan weigh so much an'--"

"Get out! Get out before I pull you out! And if I do, I'm going

to leave you right here, in the dark by yourself. Quick, now!"

Prissy moaned, peering at the dark trees that closed about them on

both sides of the road--trees which might reach out and clutch her

If she left the shelter of the wagon. But she laid the baby beside

Melanie, scrambled to the ground and, reaching up, lifted Wade out.

The little boy sobbed, shrinking close to his nurse.

"Make him hush. I can't stand it," said Scarlett, taking the horse

by the bridle and pulling him to a reluctant start. "Be a little

man, Wade, and stop crying or I will come over there and slap you."

Why had God invented children, she thought savagely as she turned

her ankle cruelly on the dark road--useless, crying nuisances they

were, always demanding care, always in the way. In her exhaustion,

there was no room for compassion for the frightened child, trotting

by Prissy's side, dragging at her hand and sniffling--only a

weariness that she had borne him, only a tired wonder that she had

ever married Charles Hamilton.

"Miss Scarlett," whispered Prissy, clutching her mistress' arm,

"doan le's go ter Tara. Dey's not dar. Dey's all done gone.

Maybe dey daid--Maw an' all'm."

The echo of her own thoughts infuriated her and Scarlett shook off

the pinching fingers.

"Then give me Wade's hand. You can sit right down here and stay."

"No'm! No'm!"

"Then HUSH!"

How slowly the horse moved! The moisture from his slobbering mouth

dripped down upon her hand. Through her mind ran a few words of

the song she had once sung with Rhett--she could not recall the

rest:

"Just a few more days for to tote the weary load--"

"Just a few more steps," hummed her brain, over and over, "just a

few more steps for to tote the weary load."

Then they topped the rise and before them lay the oaks of Tara, a

towering dark mass against the darkening sky. Scarlett looked

hastily to see if there was a light anywhere. There was none.

"They are gone!" said her heart, like cold lead in her breast.

"Gone!"

She turned the horse's head into the driveway, and the cedars,

meeting over their heads cast them into midnight blackness.

Peering up the long tunnel of darkness, straining her eyes she saw

ahead--or did she see? Were her tired eyes playing her tricks?--

the white bricks of Tara blurred and indistinct. Home! Home! The

dear white walls, the windows with the fluttering curtains, the

wide verandas--were they all there ahead of her, in the gloom? Or

did the darkness mercifully conceal such a horror as the MacIntosh

house?

The avenue seemed miles long and the horse, pulling stubbornly at

her hand, plopped slower and slower. Eagerly her eyes searched the

darkness. The roof seemed to be intact. Could it be--could it

be--? No, it wasn't possible. War stopped for nothing, not even

Tara, built to last five hundred years. It could not have passed

over Tara.

Then the shadowy outline did take form. She pulled the horse

forward faster. The white walls did show there through the

darkness. And untarnished by smoke. Tara had escaped! Home! She

dropped the bridle and ran the last few steps, leaped forward with

an urge to clutch the walls themselves in her arms. Then she saw a

form, shadowy in the dimness, emerging from the blackness of the

front veranda and standing at the top of the steps. Tara was not

deserted. Someone was home!

A cry of joy rose to her throat and died there. The house was so

dark and still and the figure did not move or call to her. What

was wrong? What was wrong? Tara stood intact, yet shrouded with

the same eerie quiet that hung over the whole stricken countryside.

Then the figure moved. Stiffly and slowly, it came down the steps.

"Pa?" she whispered huskily, doubting almost that it was he. "It's

me--Katie Scarlett. I've come home."

Gerald moved toward her, silent as a sleepwalker, his stiff leg

dragging. He came close to her, looking at her in a dazed way as