Into her pierced ears the diamond earrings she had brought from

Tara, and tossed her head to observe the effect. They made

pleasant clicking noises which were very satisfactory and she

thought that she must remember to toss her head frequently when

with Rhett. Dancing earrings always attracted a man and gave a

girl such a spirited air.

What a shame Aunt Pitty had no other gloves than the ones now on

her fat hands! No woman could really feel like a lady without

gloves, but Scarlett had not had a pair since she left Atlanta.

And the long months of hard work at Tara had roughened her hands

until they were far from pretty. Well, it couldn't be helped.

She'd take Aunt Pitty's little seal muff and hide her bare hands in

it. Scarlett felt that it gave her the final finishing touch of

elegance. No one, looking at her now, would suspect that poverty

and want were standing at her shoulder.

It was so important that Rhett should not suspect. He must not

think that anything but tender feelings were driving her.

She tiptoed down the stairs and out of the house while Cookie

bawled on unconcernedly in the kitchen. She hastened down Baker

Street to avoid the all seeing eyes of the neighbors and sat down

on a carriage block on Ivy Street in front of a burned house, to

wait for some passing carriage or wagon which would give her a

ride. The sun dipped in and out from behind hurrying clouds,

lighting the street with a false brightness which had no warmth in

it, and the wind fluttered the lace of her pantalets. It was

colder than she had expected and she wrapped Aunt Pitty's thin

cloak about her and shivered impatiently. Just as she was

preparing to start walking the long way across town to the Yankee

encampment, a battered wagon appeared. In it was an old woman with

a lip full of snuff and a weather-beaten face under a drab

sunbonnet, driving a dawdling old mule. She was going in the

direction of the city hall and she grudgingly gave Scarlett a ride.

But it was obvious that the dress, bonnet and muff found no favor

with her.

"She thinks I'm a hussy," thought Scarlett. "And perhaps she's

right at that!"

When at last they reached the town square and the tall white cupola

of the city hall loomed up, she made her thanks, climbed down from

the wagon and watched the country woman drive off. Looking around

carefully to see that she was not observed, she pinched her cheeks

to give them color and bit her lips until they stung to make them

red. She adjusted the bonnet and smoothed back her hair and looked

about the square. The two-story red-brick city hall had survived

the burning of the city. But it looked forlorn and unkempt under

the gray sky. Surrounding the building completely and covering the

square of land of which it was the center were row after row of

army huts, dingy and mud splashed. Yankee soldiers loitered

everywhere and Scarlett looked at them uncertainly, some of her

courage deserting her. How would she go about finding Rhett in

this enemy camp?

She looked down the street toward the firehouse and saw that the

wide arched doors were closed and heavily barred and two sentries

passed and repassed on each side of the building. Rhett was in

there. But what should she say to the Yankee soldiers? And what

would they say to her? She squared her shoulders. If she hadn't

been afraid to kill one Yankee, she shouldn't fear merely talking

to another.

She picked her way precariously across the stepping stones of the

muddy street and walked forward until a sentry, his blue overcoat

buttoned high against the wind, stopped her.

"What is it, Ma'm?" His voice had a strange mid-Western twang but

it was polite and respectful.

"I want to see a man in there--he is a prisoner."

"Well, I don't know," said the sentry, scratching his head. "They

are mighty particular about visitors and--" He stopped and peered

into her face sharply. "Lord, lady! Don't you cry! You go over

to post headquarters and ask the officers. They'll let you see

him, I bet."

Scarlett, who had no intention of crying, beamed at him. He turned

to another sentry who was slowly pacing his beat: "Yee-ah, Bill.

Come'eer."

The second sentry, a large man muffled in a blue overcoat from

which villainous black whiskers burst, came through the mud toward

them.

"You take this lady to headquarters."

Scarlett thanked him and followed the sentry.

"Mind you don't turn your ankle on those stepping stones," said the

soldier, taking her arm. "And you'd better hist up your skirts a

little to keep them out of the mud."

The voice issuing from the whiskers had the same nasal twang but

was kind and pleasant and his hand was firm and respectful. Why,

Yankees weren't bad at all!

"It's a mighty cold day for a lady to be out in," said her escort.

"Have you come a fer piece?"

"Oh, yes, from clear across the other side of town," she said,

warming to the kindness in his voice.

"This ain't no weather for a lady to be out in," said the soldier

reprovingly, "with all this la grippe in the air. Here's Post

Command, lady-- What's the matter?"

"This house--this house is your headquarters?" Scarlett looked up

at the lovely old dwelling facing on the square and could have

cried. She had been to so many parties in this house during the

war. It had been a gay beautiful place and now--there was a large

United States flag floating over it.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing--only--only--I used to know the people who lived here."

"Well, that's too bad. I guess they wouldn't know it themselves if

they saw it, for it shore is torn up on the inside. Now, you go on

in, Ma'm, and ask for the captain."

She went up the steps, caressing the broken white banisters, and

pushed open the front door. The hall was dark and as cold as a

vault and a shivering sentry was leaning against the closed folding

doors of what had been, in better days, the dining room.

"I want to see the captain," she said.

He pulled back the doors and she entered the room, her heart beating

rapidly, her face flushing with embarrassment and excitement. There

was a close stuffy smell in the room, compounded of the smoking

fire, tobacco fumes, leather, damp woolen uniforms and unwashed

bodies. She had a confused impression of bare walls with torn

wallpaper, rows of blue overcoats and slouch hats hung on nails, a

roaring fire, a long table covered with papers and a group of

officers in blue uniforms with brass buttons.

She gulped once and found her voice. She mustn't let these Yankees

know she was afraid. She must look and be her prettiest and most

unconcerned self.

"The captain?"

"I'm one captain," said a fat man whose tunic was unbuttoned.

"I want to see a prisoner, Captain Rhett Butler."

"Butler again? He's popular, that man," laughed the captain,

taking a chewed cigar from his mouth. "You a relative, Ma'm?"

"Yes--his--his sister."

He laughed again.

"He's got a lot of sisters, one of them here yesterday."

Scarlett flushed. One of those creatures Rhett consorted with,

probably that Watling woman. And these Yankees thought she was

another one. It was unendurable. Not even for Tara would she stay

here another minute and be insulted. She turned to the door and

reached angrily for the knob but another officer was by her side

quickly. He was clean shaven and young and had merry, kind eyes.

"Just a minute, Ma'm. Won't you sit down here by the fire where