It was September and time to pick the cotton. Will Benteen sat on

the front steps at Scarlett's feet in the pleasant sunshine of the

early autumn afternoon and his flat voice went on and on languidly

about the exorbitant costs of ginning the cotton at the new gin

near Fayetteville. However, he had learned that day in

Fayetteville that he could cut this expense a fourth by lending the

horse and wagon for two weeks to the gin owner. He had delayed

closing the bargain until he discussed it with Scarlett.

She looked at the lank figure leaning against the porch column,

chewing a straw. Undoubtedly, as Mammy frequently declared, Will

was something the Lord had provided and Scarlett often wondered how

Tara could have lived through the last few months without him. He

never had much to say, never displayed any energy, never seemed to

take much interest in anything that went on about him, but he knew

everything about everybody at Tara. And he did things. He did

them silently, patiently and competently. Though he had only one

leg, he could work faster than Pork. And he could get work out of

Pork, which was, to Scarlett, a marvelous thing. When the cow had

the colic and the horse fell ill with a mysterious ailment which

threatened to remove him permanently from them, Will sat up nights

with them and saved them. That he was a shrewd trader brought him

Scarlett's respect, for he could ride out in the mornings with a

bushel or two of apples, sweet potatoes and other vegetables and

return with seeds, lengths of cloth, flour and other necessities

which she knew she could never have acquired, good trader though

she was.

He had gradually slipped into the status of a member of the family

and slept on a cot in the little dressing room off Gerald's room.

He said nothing of leaving Tara, and Scarlett was careful not to

question him, fearful that he might leave them. Sometimes, she

thought that if he were anybody and had any gumption he would go

home, even if he no longer had a home. But even with this thought,

she would pray fervently that he would remain indefinitely. It was

so convenient to have a man about the house.

She thought, too, that if Carreen had the sense of a mouse she

would see that Will cared for her. Scarlett would have been

eternally grateful to Will, had he asked her for Carreen's hand.

Of course, before the war, Will would certainly not have been an

eligible suitor. He was not of the planter class at all, though he

was not poor white. He was just plain Cracker, a small farmer,

half-educated, prone to grammatical errors and ignorant of some of

the finer manners the O'Haras were accustomed to in gentlemen. In

fact, Scarlett wondered if he could be called a gentleman at all

and decided that he couldn't. Melanie hotly defended him, saying

that anyone who had Will's kind heart and thoughtfulness of others

was of gentle birth. Scarlett knew that Ellen would have fainted

at the thought of a daughter of hers marrying such a man, but now

Scarlett had been by necessity forced too far away from Ellen's

teachings to let that worry her. Men were scarce, girls had to

marry someone and Tara had to have a man. But Carreen, deeper and

deeper immersed in her prayer book and every day losing more of her

touch with the world of realities, treated Will as gently as a

brother and took him as much for granted as she did Pork.

"If Carreen had any sense of gratitude to me for what I've done for

her, she'd marry him and not let him get away from here," Scarlett

thought indignantly. "But no, she must spend her time mooning

about a silly boy who probably never gave her a serious thought."

So Will remained at Tara, for what reason she did not know and she

found his businesslike man-to-man attitude with her both pleasant

and helpful. He was gravely deferential to the vague Gerald but it

was to Scarlett that he turned as the real head of the house.

She gave her approval to the plan of hiring out the horse even

though it meant the family would be without any means of

transportation temporarily. Suellen would be especially grieved at

this. Her greatest joy lay in going to Jonesboro or Fayetteville

with Will when he drove over on business. Adorned in the assembled

best of the family, she called on old friends, heard all the gossip

of the County and felt herself again Miss O'Hara of Tara. Suellen

never missed the opportunity to leave the plantation and give

herself airs among people who did not know she weeded the garden

and made beds.

Miss Fine Airs will just have to do without gadding for two weeks,

thought Scarlett, and we'll have to put up with her nagging and her

bawling.

Melanie joined them on the veranda, the baby in her arms, and

spreading an old blanket on the floor, set little Beau down to

crawl. Since Ashley's letter Melanie had divided her time between

glowing, singing happiness and anxious longing. But happy or

depressed, she was too thin, too white. She did her share of the

work uncomplainingly but she was always ailing. Old Dr. Fontaine

diagnosed her trouble as female complaint and concurred with Dr.

Meade in saying she should never have had Beau. And he said

frankly that another baby would kill her.

"When I was over to Fayetteville today," said Will, "I found

somethin' right cute that I thought would interest you ladies and I

brought it home." He fumbled in his back pants pocket and brought

out the wallet of calico, stiffened with bark, which Carreen had

made him. From it, he drew a Confederate bill.

"If you think Confederate money is cute, Will, I certainly don't,"

said Scarlett shortly, for the very sight of Confederate money made

her mad. "We've got three thousand dollars of it in Pa's trunk

this minute, and Mammy's after me to let her paste it over the

holes in the attic walls so the draft won't get her. And I think