It. But then, that's what a man gets for marrying a Yankee woman--

no pride, no decency, always thinking about their own skins. . . .

How come they didn't burn Tara, Scarlett?"

For a moment Scarlett paused before answering. She knew the very

next question would be: "And how are all your folks? And how is

your dear mother?" She knew she could not tell them Ellen was

dead. She knew that if she spoke those words or even let herself

think of them in the presence of these sympathetic women, she would

burst into a storm of tears and cry until she was sick. And she

could not let herself cry. She had not really cried since she came

home and she knew that if she once let down the floodgates, her

closely husbanded courage would all be gone. But she knew, too,

looking with confusion at the friendly faces about her, that if she

withheld the news of Ellen's death, the Fontaines would never

forgive her. Grandma in particular was devoted to Ellen and there

were very few people in the County for whom the old lady gave a

snap of her skinny fingers.

"Well, speak up," said Grandma, looking sharply at her. "Don't you

know, Miss?"

"Well, you see, I didn't get home till the day after the battle,"

she answered hastily. "The Yankees were all gone then. Pa--Pa

told me that--that he got them not to burn the house because

Suellen and Carreen were so ill with typhoid they couldn't be

moved."

"That's the first time I ever heard of a Yankee doing a decent

thing," said Grandma, as if she regretted hearing anything good

about the invaders. "And how are the girls now?"

"Oh, they are better, much better, almost well but quite weak,"

answered Scarlett. Then, seeing the question she feared hovering

on the old lady's lips, she cast hastily about for some other topic

of conversation.

"I--I wonder if you could lend us something to eat? The Yankees

cleaned us out like a swarm of locusts. But, if you are on short

rations, just tell me so plainly and--"

"Send over Pork with a wagon and you shall have half of what we've

got, rice, meal, ham, some chickens," said Old Miss, giving

Scarlett a sudden keen look.

"Oh, that's too much! Really, I--"

"Not a word! I won't hear it. What are neighbors for?"

"You are so kind that I can't-- But I have to be going now. The

folks at home will be worrying about me."

Grandma rose abruptly and took Scarlett by the arm.

"You two stay here," she commanded, pushing Scarlett toward the

back porch. "I have a private word for this child. Help me down

the steps, Scarlett."

Young Miss and Sally said good-by and promised to come calling

soon. They were devoured by curiosity as to what Grandma had to

say to Scarlett but unless she chose to tell them, they would never

know. Old ladies were so difficult, Young Miss whispered to Sally

as they went back to their sewing.

Scarlett stood with her hand on the horse's bridle, a dull feeling

at her heart.

"Now," said Grandma, peering into her face, "what's wrong at Tara?

What are you keeping back?"

Scarlett looked up into the keen old eyes and knew she could tell

the truth, without tears. No one could cry in the presence of

Grandma Fontaine without her express permission.

"Mother is dead," she said flatly.

The hand on her arm tightened until it pinched and the wrinkled

lids over the yellow eyes blinked.

"Did the Yankees kill her?"

"She died of typhoid. Died--the day before I came home."

"Don't think about it," said Grandma sternly and Scarlett saw her

swallow. "And your Pa?"

"Pa is--Pa is not himself."

"What do you mean? Speak up. Is he ill?"

"The shock--he is so strange--he is not--"

"Don't tell me he's not himself. Do you mean his mind is

unhinged?"