It?" whispered Suellen happily to Scarlett. Suellen was raised to

the skies by having a beau of her own in the house again and she

could hardly take her eyes off Frank Kennedy. Scarlett was

surprised to see that Suellen could be almost pretty, despite the

thinness which had persisted since her illness. Her cheeks were

flushed and there was a soft luminous look in her eyes.

"She really must care about him," thought Scarlett in contempt.

"And I guess she'd be almost human if she ever had a husband of her

own, even if her husband was old fuss-budget Frank."

Carreen had brightened a little too, and some of the sleep-walking

look left her eyes that night. She had found that one of the men

had known Brent Tarleton and had been with him the day he was

killed, and she promised herself a long private talk with him after

supper.

At supper Melanie surprised them all by forcing herself out of her

timidity and being almost vivacious. She laughed and joked and

almost but not quite coquetted with a one-eyed soldier who gladly

repaid her efforts with extravagant gallantries. Scarlett knew the

effort this involved both mentally and physically, for Melanie

suffered torments of shyness in the presence of anything male.

Moreover she was far from well. She insisted she was strong and

did more work even than Dilcey but Scarlett knew she was sick.

When she lifted things her face went white and she had a way of

sitting down suddenly after exertions, as if her legs would no

longer support her. But tonight she, like Suellen and Carreen,

was doing everything possible to make the soldiers enjoy their

Christmas Eve. Scarlett alone took no pleasure in the guests.

The troop had added their ration of parched corn and side meat to

the supper of dried peas, stewed dried apples and peanuts which

Mammy set before them and they declared it was the best meal they

had had in months. Scarlett watched them eat and she was uneasy.

She not only begrudged them every mouthful they ate but she was on

tenterhooks lest they discover somehow that Pork had slaughtered

one of the shoats the day before. It now hung in the pantry and

she had grimly promised her household that she would scratch out

the eyes of anyone who mentioned the shoat to their guests or the

presence of the dead pig's sisters and brothers, safe in their pen

In the swamp. These hungry men could devour the whole shoat at one

meal and, if they knew of the live hogs, they could commandeer them

for the army. She was alarmed, too, for the cow and the horse and

wished they were hidden in the swamp, instead of tied in the woods

at the bottom of the pasture. If the commissary took her stock,

Tara could not possibly live through the winter. There would be no

way of replacing them. As to what the army would eat, she did not

care. Let the army feed the army--if it could. It was hard enough

for her to feed her own.

The men added as dessert some "ramrod rolls" from their knapsacks,

and this was the first time Scarlett had ever seen this Confederate

article of diet about which there were almost as many jokes as

about lice. They were charred spirals of what appeared to be wood.

The men dared her to take a bite and, when she did, she discovered

that beneath the smoke-blackened surface was unsalted corn bread.

The soldiers mixed their ration of corn meal with water, and salt

too when they could get it, wrapped the thick paste about their

ramrods and roasted the mess over camp fires. It was as hard as

rock candy and as tasteless as sawdust and after one bite Scarlett

hastily handed it back amid roars of laughter. She met Melanie's

eyes and the same thought was plain in both faces. . . . "How can

they go on fighting if they have only this stuff to eat?"

The meal was gay enough and even Gerald, presiding absently at the

head of the table, managed to evoke from the back of his dim mind

some of the manner of a host and an uncertain smile. The men

talked, the women smiled and flattered--but Scarlett turning

suddenly to Frank Kennedy to ask him news of Miss Pittypat, caught

an expression on his face which made her forget what she intended

to say.

His eyes had left Suellen's and were wandering about the room, to

Gerald's childlike puzzled eyes, to the floor, bare of rugs, to the

mantelpiece denuded of its ornaments, the sagging springs and torn

upholstery into which Yankee bayonets had ripped, the cracked

mirror above the sideboard, the unfaded squares on the wall where

pictures had hung before the looters came, the scant table service,

the decently mended but old dresses of the girls, the flour sack

which had been made into a kilt for Wade.

Frank was remembering the Tara he had known before the war and on

his face was a hurt look, a look of tired impotent anger. He loved

Suellen, liked her sisters, respected Gerald and had a genuine

fondness for the plantation. Since Sherman had swept through

Georgia, Frank had seen many appalling sights as he rode about the

state trying to collect supplies, but nothing had gone to his heart

as Tara did now. He wanted to do something for the O'Haras,

especially Suellen, and there was nothing he could do. He was

unconsciously wagging his whiskered head in pity and clicking his

tongue against his teeth when Scarlett caught his eye. He saw the

flame of indignant pride in them and he dropped his gaze quickly to

his plate in embarrassment.

The girls were hungry for news. There had been no mail service

since Atlanta fell, now four months past, and they were in complete

ignorance as to where the Yankees were, how the Confederate Army

was faring, what had happened to Atlanta and to old friends.

Frank, whose work took him all over the section, was as good as a

newspaper, better even, for he was kin to or knew almost everyone

from Macon north to Atlanta, and he could supply bits of

interesting personal gossip which the papers always omitted. To

cover his embarrassment at being caught by Scarlett, he plunged

hastily into a recital of news. The Confederates, he told them,

had retaken Atlanta after Sherman marched out, but it was a

valueless prize as Sherman had burned it completely.

"But I thought Atlanta burned the night I left," cried Scarlett,

bewildered. "I thought our boys burned it!"

"Oh, no, Miss Scarlett!" cried Frank, shocked. "We'd never burn

one of our own towns with our own folks in it! What you saw

burning was the warehouses and the supplies we didn't want the

Yankees to capture and the foundries and the ammunition. But that

was all. When Sherman took the town the houses and stores were

standing there as pretty as you please. And he quartered his men

in them."

"But what happened to the people? Did he--did he kill them?"

"He killed some--but not with bullets," said the one-eyed soldier

grimly. "Soon's he marched into Atlanta he told the mayor that all

the people in town would have to move out, every living soul. And

there were plenty of old folks that couldn't stand the trip and

sick folks that ought not to have been moved and ladies who were--

well, ladies who hadn't ought to be moved either. And he moved

them out in the biggest rainstorm you ever saw, hundreds and

hundreds of them, and dumped them in the woods near Rough and Ready

and sent word to General Hood to come and get them. And a plenty

of the folks died of pneumonia and not being able to stand that

sort of treatment."

"Oh, but why did he do that? They couldn't have done him any

harm," cried Melanie.

"He said he wanted the town to rest his men and horses in," said

Frank. "And he rested them there till the middle of November and

then he lit out. And he set fire to the whole town when he left

and burned everything."

"Oh, surely not everything!" cried the girls in dismay.