Imagine that! Sometimes there were two dozen Yankees standing in

the back yard of the Merriwether home, waiting for the baking to be

finished. Now that Rene was home, he drove an old wagon to the

Yankee camp every day and sold cakes and pies and beaten biscuits

to the soldiers. Mrs. Merriwether said that when she made a little

more money she was going to open a bake shop downtown. Pitty did

not wish to criticize but after all-- As for herself, said Pitty,

she would rather starve than have such commerce with Yankees. She

made a point of giving a disdainful look to every soldier she met,

and crossed to the other side of the street in as insulting a

manner as possible, though, she said, this was quite inconvenient

in wet weather. Scarlett gathered that no sacrifice, even though

it be muddy shoes, was too great to show loyalty to the Confederacy

in so far as Miss Pittypat was concerned.

Mrs. Meade and the doctor had lost their home when the Yankees

fired the town and they had neither the money nor the heart to

rebuild, now that Phil and Darcy were dead. Mrs. Meade said she

never wanted a home again, for what was a home without children and

grandchildren in it? They were very lonely and had gone to live

with the Elsings who had rebuilt the damaged part of their home.

Mr. and Mrs. Whiting had a room there, too, and Mrs. Bonnell was

talking of moving in, if she was fortunate enough to rent her house

to a Yankee officer and his family.

"But how do they all squeeze in?" cried Scarlett. "There's Mrs.

Elsing and Fanny and Hugh--"

"Mrs. Elsing and Fanny sleep in the parlor and Hugh in the attic,"

explained Pitty, who knew the domestic arrangements of all her

friends. "My dear, I do hate to tell you this but--Mrs. Elsing

calls them 'paying guests' but," Pitty dropped her voice, "they are

really nothing at all except boarders. Mrs. Elsing is running a

boarding house! Isn't that dreadful?"

"I think it's wonderful," said Scarlett shortly. "I only wish we'd

had 'paying guests' at Tara for the last year instead of free

boarders. Maybe we wouldn't be so poor now."

"Scarlett, how can you say such things? Your poor mother must be

turning in her grave at the very thought of charging money for the

hospitality of Tara! Of course, Mrs. Elsing was simply forced to

It because, while she took in fine sewing and Fanny painted china

and Hugh made a little money peddling firewood, they couldn't make

ends meet. Imagine darling Hugh forced to peddle wood! And he all

set to be a fine lawyer! I could just cry at the things our boys

are reduced to!"

Scarlett thought of the rows of cotton beneath the glaring coppery

sky at Tara and how her back had ached as she bent over them. She

remembered the feel of plow handles between her inexperienced,

blistered palms and she felt that Hugh Elsing was deserving of no

special sympathy. What an innocent old fool Pitty was and, despite

the ruin all around her, how sheltered!

"If he doesn't like peddling, why doesn't he practice law? Or

isn't there any law practice left in Atlanta?"

"Oh dear, yes! There's plenty of law practice. Practically

everybody is suing everybody else these days. With everything

burned down and boundary lines wiped out, no one knows just where

their land begins or ends. But you can't get any pay for suing

because nobody has any money. So Hugh sticks to his peddling. . . .

Oh, I almost forgot! Did I write you? Fanny Elsing is getting

married tomorrow night and, of course, you must attend. Mrs.

Elsing will be only too pleased to have you when she knows you're

in town. I do hope you have some other frock besides that one.

Not that it isn't a very sweet frock, darling, but--well, it does

look a bit worn. Oh, you have a pretty frock? I'm so glad because

it's going to be the first real wedding we've had in Atlanta since

before the town fell. Cake and wine and dancing afterward, though

I don't know how the Elsings can afford it, they are so poor."

"Who is Fanny marrying? I thought after Dallas McLure was killed

at Gettysburg--"

"Darling, you mustn't criticize Fanny. Everybody isn't as loyal to

the dead as you are to poor Charlie. Let me see. What is his

name? I can never remember names--Tom somebody. I knew his mother

well, we went to LaGrange Female Institute together. She was a

Tomlinson from LaGrange and her mother was--let me see. . . .

Perkins? Parkins? Parkinson! That's it. From Sparta. A very

good family but just the same--well, I know I shouldn't say it but

I don't see how Fanny can bring herself to marry him!"

"Does he drink or--"

"Dear, no! His character is perfect but, you see, he was wounded

low down, by a bursting shell and it did something to his legs--

makes them--makes them, well, I hate to use the word but it makes

him spraddle. It gives him a very vulgar appearance when he walks--

well, it doesn't look very pretty. I don't see why she's marrying

him."

"Girls have to marry someone."

"Indeed, they do not," said Pitty, ruffling. "I never had to."

"Now, darling, I didn't mean you! Everybody knows how popular you

were and still are! Why, old Judge Canton used to throw sheep's

eyes at you till I--"

"Oh, Scarlett, hush! That old fool!" giggled Pitty, good humor

restored. "But, after all, Fanny was so popular she could have

made a better match and I don't believe she loves this Tom what's-

his-name. I don't believe she's ever gotten over Dallas McLure

getting killed, but she's not like you, darling. You've remained

so faithful to dear Charlie, though you could have married dozens

of times. Melly and I have often said how loyal you were to his

memory when everyone else said you were just a heartless coquette."

Scarlett passed over this tactless confidence and skillfully led

Pitty from one friend to another but all the while she was in a

fever of impatience to bring the conversation around to Rhett. It

would never do for her to ask outright about him, so soon after

arriving. It might start the old lady's mind to working on

channels better left untouched. There would be time enough for

Pitty's suspicions to be aroused if Rhett refused to marry her.

Aunt Pitty prattled on happily, pleased as a child at having an

audience. Things in Atlanta were in a dreadful pass, she said, due

to the vile doings of the Republicans. There was no end to their

goings on and the worst thing was the way they were putting ideas

in the poor darkies' heads.

"My dear, they want to let the darkies vote! Did you ever hear of

anything more silly? Though--I don't know--now that I think about

it, Uncle Peter has much more sense than any Republican I ever saw

and much better manners but, of course, Uncle Peter is far too well

bred to want to vote. But the very notion has upset the darkies

till they're right addled. And some of them are so insolent. Your

life isn't safe on the streets after dark and even in the broad

daylight they push ladies off the sidewalks into the mud. And if

any gentleman dares to protest, they arrest him and-- My dear, did

I tell you that Captain Butler was in jail?"

"Rhett Butler?"

Even with this startling news, Scarlett was grateful that Aunt

Pitty had saved her the necessity of bringing his name into the

conversation herself.

"Yes, indeed!" Excitement colored Pitty's cheeks pink and she sat

upright. "He's in jail this very minute for killing a negro and

they may hang him! Imagine Captain Butler hanging!"

For a moment, the breath went out of Scarlett's lungs in a

sickening gasp and she could only stare at the fat old lady who was

so obviously pleased at the effect of her statement.

"They haven't proved it yet but somebody killed this darky who had