It was a relief to hear the truth put so baldly. How good the old

lady was to offer no sympathy that would make her cry.

"Yes," she said dully, "he's lost his mind. He acts dazed and

sometimes he can't seem to remember that Mother is dead. Oh, Old

Miss, it's more than I can stand to see him sit by the hour,

waiting for her and so patiently too, and he used to have no more

patience than a child. But it's worse when he does remember that

she's gone. Every now and then, after he's sat still with his ear

cocked listening for her, he jumps up suddenly and stumps out of

the house and down to the burying ground. And then he comes

dragging back with the tears all over his face and he says over and

over till I could scream: 'Katie Scarlett, Mrs. O'Hara is dead.

Your mother is dead,' and it's just like I was hearing it again for

the first time. And sometimes, late at night, I hear him calling

her and I get out of bed and go to him and tell him she's down at

the quarters with a sick darky. And he fusses because she's always

tiring herself out nursing people. And it's so hard to get him

back to bed. He's like a child. Oh, I wish Dr. Fontaine was here!

I know he could do something for Pa! And Melanie needs a doctor

too. She isn't getting over her baby like she should--"

"Melly--a baby? And she's with you?"

"Yes."

"What's Melly doing with you? Why isn't she in Macon with her aunt

and her kinfolks? I never thought you liked her any too well,

Miss, for all she was Charles' sister. Now, tell me all about it."

"It's a long story, Old Miss. Don't you want to go back in the

house and sit down?"

"I can stand," said Grandma shortly. "And if you told your story

in front of the others, they'd be bawling and making you feel sorry

for yourself. Now, let's have it."

Scarlett began haltingly with the siege and Melanie's condition,

but as her story progressed beneath the sharp old eyes which never

faltered in their gaze, she found words, words of power and horror.

It all came back to her, the sickeningly hot day of the baby's

birth, the agony of fear, the flight and Rhett's desertion. She

spoke of the wild darkness of the night, the blazing camp fires

which might be friends or foes, the gaunt chimneys which met her

gaze in the morning sun, the dead men and horses along the road,

the hunger, the desolation, the fear that Tara had been burned.

"I thought if I could just get home to Mother, she could manage

everything and I could lay down the weary load. On the way home I

thought the worst had already happened to me, but when I knew she

was dead I knew what the worst really was."

She dropped her eyes to the ground and waited for Grandma to speak.

The silence was so prolonged she wondered if Grandma could have

failed to comprehend her desperate plight. Finally the old voice

spoke and her tones were kind, kinder than Scarlett had ever heard

her use in addressing anyone.

"Child, it's a very bad thing for a woman to face the worst that

can happen to her, because after she's faced the worst she can't

ever really fear anything again. And it's very bad for a woman not

to be afraid of something. You think I don't understand what

you've told me--what you've been through? Well, I understand very

well. When I was about your age I was in the Creek uprising, right

after the Fort Mims massacre--yes," she said in a far-away voice,

"just about your age for that was fifty-odd years ago. And I

managed to get into the bushes and hide and I lay there and saw our

house burn and I saw the Indians scalp my brothers and sisters.

And I could only lie there and pray that the light of the flames

wouldn't show up my hiding place. And they dragged Mother out and

killed her about twenty feet from where I was lying. And scalped

her too. And ever so often one Indian would go back to her and

sink his tommyhawk into her skull again. I--I was my mother's pet

and I lay there and saw it all. And in the morning I set out for

the nearest settlement and it was thirty miles away. It took me

three days to get there, through the swamps and the Indians, and

afterward they thought I'd lose my mind. . . . That's where I met

Dr. Fontaine. He looked after me. . . . Ah, well, that's been

fifty years ago, as I said, and since that time I've never been

afraid of anything or anybody because I'd known the worst that

could happen to me. And that lack of fear has gotten me into a lot

of trouble and cost me a lot of happiness. God intended women to

be timid frightened creatures and there's something unnatural about

a woman who isn't afraid. . . . Scarlett, always save something to

fear--even as you save something to love. . . ."

Her voice trailed off and she stood silent with eyes looking back

over half a century to the day when she had been afraid. Scarlett

moved impatiently. She had thought Grandma was going to understand

and perhaps show her some way to solve her problems. But like all

old people she'd gotten to talking about things that happened

before anyone was born, things no one was interested in. Scarlett

wished she had not confided in her.

"Well, go home, child, or they'll be worrying about you," she said

suddenly. "Send Pork with the wagon this afternoon. . . . And

don't think you can lay down the load, ever. Because you can't.

I know."

Indian summer lingered into November that year and the warm days

were bright days for those at Tara. The worst was over. They had

a horse now and they could ride instead of walk. They had fried

eggs for breakfast and fried ham for supper to vary the monotony of

the yams, peanuts and dried apples, and on one festal occasion they

even had roast chicken. The old sow had finally been captured and

she and her brood rooted and grunted happily under the house where

they were penned. Sometimes they squealed so loudly no one in the

house could talk but it was a pleasant sound. It meant fresh pork

for the white folks and chitterlings for the negroes when cold

weather and hog-killing time should arrive, and it meant food for

the winter for all.

Scarlett's visit to the Fontaines had heartened her more than she

realized. Just the knowledge that she had neighbors, that some of

the family friends and old homes had survived, drove out the

terrible loss and alone feeling which had oppressed her in her

first weeks at Tara. And the Fontaines and Tarletons, whose

plantations had not been in the path of the army, were most

generous in sharing what little they had. It was the tradition of

the County that neighbor helped neighbor and they refused to accept

a penny from Scarlett, telling her that she would do the same for

them and she could pay them back, in kind, next year when Tara was

again producing.

Scarlett now had food for her household, she had a horse, she had

the money and jewelry taken from the Yankee straggler, and the

greatest need was new clothing. She knew it would be risky

business sending Pork south to buy clothes, when the horse might be

captured by either Yankees or Confederates. But, at least, she had

the money with which to buy the clothes, a horse and wagon for the

trip, and perhaps Pork could make the trip without getting caught.

Yes, the worst was over.

Every morning when Scarlett arose she thanked God for the pale-blue

sky and the warm sun, for each day of good weather put off the