Vent to loud guffaws at hearing the detractor of their beloved Tara

set at naught. Suellen and Carreen giggled and even Gerald's face

wore a vague smile. Everyone laughed except Peter, who shifted

from one large splayed foot to the other in mounting indignation.

"Whut's wrong wid you, nigger?" inquired Mammy with a grin. "Is

you gittin' too ole ter perteck yo' own Missus?"

Peter was outraged.

"Too ole! Me too ole? No, Ma'm! Ah kin perteck Miss Pitty lak Ah

allus done. Ain' Ah perteck her down ter Macom when us refugeed?

Ain' Ah perteck her w'en de Yankees come ter Macom an' she so

sceered she faintin' all de time? An' ain' Ah 'quire disyere nag

ter bring her back ter 'Lanta an' perteck her an' her pa's silver

all de way?" Peter drew himself to his full height as he

Vindicated himself. "Ah ain' talkin' about perteckin'. Ah's

talkin' 'bout how it LOOK."

"How who look?"

"Ah'm talkin' 'bout how it look ter folks, seein' Miss Pitty livin'

'lone. Folks talks scan'lous 'bout maiden ladies dat lives by

deyseff," continued Peter, and it was obvious to his listeners that

Pittypat, in his mind, was still a plump and charming miss of

sixteen who must be sheltered against evil tongues. "An' Ah ain'

figgerin' on havin' folks criticize her. No, ma'm . . . An' Ah

ain' figgerin' on her takin' in no bo'ders, jes' fer comp'ny

needer. Ah done tole her dat. 'Not w'ile you got yo' flesh an'

blood dat belongs wid you,' Ah says. An' now her flesh an' blood

denyin' her. Miss Pitty ain' nuthin' but a chile an'--"

At this, Scarlett and Melly whooped louder and sank down to the

steps. Finally Melly wiped tears of mirth from her eyes.

"Poor Uncle Peter! I'm sorry I laughed. Really and truly. There!

Do forgive me. Miss Scarlett and I just can't come home now.

Maybe I'll come in September after the cotton is picked. Did

Auntie send you all the way down here just to bring us back on that

bag of bones?"

At this question, Peter's jaw suddenly dropped and guilt and

consternation swept over his wrinkled black face. His protruding

underlip retreated to normal as swiftly as a turtle withdraws its

head beneath its shell.

"Miss Melly. Ah is gittin' ole, Ah spec', 'cause Ah clean fergit

fer de moment whut she sent me fer, an' it's important too. Ah got

a letter fer you. Miss Pitty wouldn' trust de mails or nobody but

me ter bring it an'--"

"A letter? For me? Who from?"

"Well'm, it's--Miss Pitty, she says ter me, 'You, Peter, you brek

It gen'ly ter Miss Melly,' an' Ah say--"

Melly rose from the steps, her hand at her heart.

"Ashley! Ashley! He's dead!"

"No'm! No'm!" cried Peter, his voice rising to a shrill bawl, as

he fumbled in the breast pocket of his ragged coat. "He's 'live!

Disyere a letter frum him. He comin' home. He-- Gawdlmighty!

Ketch her, Mammy! Lemme--"

"Doan you tech her, you ole fool!" thundered Mammy, struggling to

keep Melanie's sagging body from falling to the ground. "You pious

black ape! Brek it gen'ly! You, Poke, tek her feet. Miss

Carreen, steady her haid. Lessus lay her on de sofa in de parlor."

There was a tumult of sound as everyone but Scarlett swarmed about

the fainting Melanie, everyone crying out in alarm, scurrying into

the house for water and pillows, and in a moment Scarlett and Uncle

Peter were left standing alone on the walk. She stood rooted,

unable to move from the position to which she had leaped when she

heard his words, staring at the old man who stood feebly waving a

letter. His old black face was as pitiful as a child's under its

mother's disapproval, his dignity collapsed.

For a moment she could not speak or move, and though her mind

shouted: "He isn't dead! He's coming home!" the knowledge brought

neither joy nor excitement, only a stunned immobility. Uncle

Peter's voice came as from a far distance, plaintive, placating.

"Mist' Willie Burr frum Macom whut is kin ter us, he brung it ter

Miss Pitty. Mist' Willie he in de same jail house wid Mist'

Ashley. Mist' Willie he got a hawse an' he got hyah soon. But

Mist' Ashley he a-walkin' an'--"

Scarlett snatched the letter from his hand. It was addressed to

Melly in Miss Pitty's writing but that did not make her hesitate a

moment. She ripped it open and Miss Pitty's inclosed note fell to

the ground. Within the envelope there was a piece of folded paper,

grimy from the dirty pocket in which it had been carried, creased

and ragged about the edges. It bore the inscription in Ashley's

hand: "Mrs. George Ashley Wilkes, Care Miss Sarah Jane Hamilton,

Atlanta, or Twelve Oaks, Jonesboro, Ga."

With fingers that shook, she opened it and read:

"Beloved, I am coming home to you--"

Tears began to stream down her face so that she could not read and

her heart swelled up until she felt she could not bear the joy of