It would look better for us both to be there instead of just one.

Don't you think so, Melly?"

"Well," began Melly helplessly. The idea of appearing publicly at

a social gathering while in mourning was so unheard of she was

bewildered.

"Scarlett's right," said Mrs. Merriwether, observing signs of

weakening. She rose and jerked her hoops into place. "Both of

you--all of you must come. Now, Pitty, don't start your excuses

again. Just think how much the hospital needs money for new beds

and drugs. And I know Charlie would like you to help the Cause he

died for."

"Well," said Pittypat, helpless as always in the presence of a

stronger personality, "if you think people will understand."

"Too good to be true! Too good to be true!" said Scarlett's joyful

heart as she slipped unobtrusively into the pink-and-yellow-draped

booth that was to have been the McLure girls'. Actually she was

at a party! After a year's seclusion, after crepe and hushed voices

and nearly going crazy with boredom, she was actually at a party,

the biggest party Atlanta had ever seen. And she could see people

and many lights and hear music and view for herself the lovely laces

and frocks and frills that the famous Captain Butler had run through

the blockade on his last trip.

She sank down on one of the little stools behind the counter of

the booth and looked up and down the long hall which, until this

afternoon, had been a bare and ugly drill room. How the ladies

must have worked today to bring it to its present beauty. It

looked lovely. Every candle and candlestick in Atlanta must be in

this hall tonight, she thought, silver ones with a dozen

sprangling arms, china ones with charming figurines clustering

their bases, old brass stands, erect and dignified, laden with

candles of all sizes and colors, smelling fragrantly of

bayberries, standing on the gun racks that ran the length of the

hall, on the long flower-decked tables, on booth counters, even on

the sills of the open windows where the draughts of warm summer

air were just strong enough to make them flare.

In the center of the hall the huge ugly lamp, hanging from the

ceiling by rusty chains, was completely transformed by twining ivy

and wild grapevines that were already withering from the heat.

The walls were banked with pine branches that gave out a spicy

smell, making the corners of the room into pretty bowers where the

chaperons and old ladies would sit. Long graceful ropes of ivy

and grapevine and smilax were hung everywhere, in looping festoons

on the walls, draped above the windows, twined in scallops all

over the brightly colored cheesecloth booths. And everywhere amid

the greenery, on flags and bunting, blazed the bright stars of the

Confederacy on their background of red and blue.

The raised platform for the musicians was especially artistic. It

was completely hidden from view by the banked greenery and starry

bunting and Scarlett knew that every potted and tubbed plant in

town was there, coleus, geranium, hydrangea, oleander, elephant

ear--even Mrs. Elsing's four treasured rubber plants, which were

given posts of honor at the four corners.

At the other end of the hall from the platform, the ladies had

eclipsed themselves. On this wall hung large pictures of

President Davis and Georgia's own "Little Alec" Stephens, Vice-

President of the Confederacy. Above them was an enormous flag

and, beneath, on long tables was the loot of the gardens of the

town, ferns, banks of roses, crimson and yellow and white, proud

sheaths of golden gladioli, masses of varicolored nasturtiums,

tall stiff hollyhocks rearing deep maroon and creamy heads above

the other flowers. Among them, candles burned serenely like altar

fires. The two faces looked down on the scene, two faces as

different as could be possible in two men at the helm of so

momentous an undertaking: Davis with the flat cheeks and cold eyes

of an ascetic, his thin proud lips set firmly; Stephens with dark

burning eyes deep socketed in a face that had known nothing but

sickness and pain and had triumphed over them with humor and with

fire--two faces that were greatly loved.

The elderly ladies of the committee in whose hands rested the

responsibility for the whole bazaar rustled in as importantly as

full-rigged ships, hurried the belated young matrons and giggling

girls into their booths, and then swept through the doors into the

back rooms where the refreshments were being laid out. Aunt Pitty

panted out after them.

The musicians clambered upon their platform, black, grinning,

their fat cheeks already shining with perspiration, and began

tuning their fiddles and sawing and whanging with their bows in

anticipatory importance. Old Levi, Mrs. Merriwether's coachman,

who had led the orchestras for every bazaar, ball and wedding

since Atlanta was named Marthasville, rapped with his bow for

attention. Few except the ladies who were conducting the bazaar

had arrived yet, but all eyes turned toward him. Then the

fiddles, bull fiddles, accordions, banjos and knuckle-bones broke