In Atlanta were crudely made wool hats, and they were tackier than

the monkey-hat forage caps.

When she thought of hats, she thought of Rhett Butler. He had so

many hats, wide Panamas for summer, tall beavers for formal

occasions, hunting hats, slouch hats of tan and black and blue.

What need had he for so many when her darling Ashley rode in the

rain with moisture dripping down his collar from the back of his

cap?

"I'll make Rhett give me that new black felt of his," she decided.

"And I'll put a gray ribbon around the brim and sew Ashley's wreath

on it and it will look lovely."

She paused and thought it might be difficult to get the hat without

some explanation. She simply could not tell Rhett she wanted it

for Ashley. He would raise his brows in that nasty way he always

had when she even mentioned Ashley's name and, like as not, would

refuse to give her the hat. Well, she'd make up some pitiful story

about a soldier in the hospital who needed it and Rhett need never

know the truth.

All that afternoon, she maneuvered to be alone with Ashley, even

for a few minutes, but Melanie was beside him constantly, and India

and Honey, their pale lashless eyes glowing, followed him about the

house. Even John Wilkes, visibly proud of his son, had no

opportunity for quiet conversation with him.

It was the same at supper where they all plied him with questions

about the war. The war! Who cared about the war? Scarlett didn't

think Ashley cared very much for that subject either. He talked at

length, laughed frequently and dominated the conversation more

completely than she had ever seen him do before, but he seemed to

say very little. He told them jokes and funny stories about

friends, talked gaily about makeshifts, making light of hunger and

long marches in the rain, and described in detail how General Lee

had looked when he rode by on the retreat from Gettysburg and

questioned: "Gentlemen, are you Georgia troops? Well, we can't

get along without you Georgians!"

It seemed to Scarlett that he was talking fervishly to keep them

from asking questions he did not want to answer. When she saw his

eyes falter and drop before the long, troubled gaze of his father,

a faint worry and bewilderment rose in her as to what was hidden in

Ashley's heart. But it soon passed, for there was no room in her

mind for anything except a radiant happiness and a driving desire

to be alone with him.

That radiance lasted until everyone in the circle about the open

fire began to yawn, and Mr. Wilkes and the girls took their

departure for the hotel. Then as Ashley and Melanie and Pittypat

and Scarlett mounted the stairs, lighted by Uncle Peter, a chill

fell on her spirit. Until that moment when they stood in the

upstairs hall, Ashley had been hers, only hers, even if she had not

had a private word with him that whole afternoon. But now, as she

said good night, she saw that Melanie's cheeks were suddenly

crimson and she was trembling. Her eyes were on the carpet and,

though she seemed overcome with some frightening emotion, she

seemed shyly happy. Melanie did not even look up when Ashley

opened the bedroom door, but sped inside. Ashley said good night

abruptly, and he did not meet Scarlett's eyes either.

The door closed behind them, leaving Scarlett open mouthed and

suddenly desolate. Ashley was no longer hers. He was Melanie's.

And as long as Melanie lived, she could go into rooms with Ashley

and close the door--and close out the rest of the world.

Now Ashley was going away, back to Virginia, back to the long

marches in the sleet, to hungry bivouacs in the snow, to pain and

hardship and to the risk of all the bright beauty of his golden

head and proud slender body being blotted out in an instant, like

an ant beneath a careless heel. The past week with its shimmering,

dreamlike beauty, its crowded hours of happiness, was gone.

The week had passed swiftly, like a dream, a dream fragrant with

the smell of pine boughs and Christmas trees, bright with little

candles and home-made tinsel, a dream where minutes flew as rapidly

as heartbeats. Such a breathless week when something within her

drove Scarlett with mingled pain and pleasure to pack and cram

every minute with incidents to remember after he was gone,

happenings which she could examine at leisure in the long months

ahead, extracting every morsel of comfort from them--dance, sing,

laugh, fetch and carry for Ashley, anticipate his wants, smile when

he smiles, be silent when he talks, follow him with your eyes so

that each line of his erect body, each lift of his eyebrows, each

quirk of his mouth, will be indelibly printed on your mind--for a

week goes by so fast and the war goes on forever.

She sat on the divan in the parlor, holding her going-away gift for

him in her lap, waiting while he said good-by to Melanie, praying

that when he did come down the stairs he would be alone and she

might be granted by Heaven a few moments alone with him. Her ears

strained for sounds from upstairs, but the house was oddly still,

so still that even the sound of her breathing seemed loud. Aunt

Pittypat was crying into her pillows in her room, for Ashley had

told her good-by half an hour before. No sounds of murmuring