Voices or of tears came from behind the closed door of Melanie's

bedroom. It seemed to Scarlett that he had been in that room for

hours, and she resented bitterly each moment that he stayed, saying

good-by to his wife, for the moments were slipping by so fast and

his time was so short.

She thought of all the things she had intended to say to him during

this week. But there had been no opportunity to say them, and she

knew now that perhaps she would never have the chance to say them.

Such foolish little things, some of them: "Ashley, you will be

careful, won't you?" "Please don't get your feet wet. You take

cold so easily." "Don't forget to put a newspaper across your

chest under your shirt. It keeps out the wind so well." But there

were other things, more important things she had wanted to say,

much more important things she had wanted to hear him say, things

she had wanted to read in his eyes, even if he did not speak them.

So many things to say and now there was no time! Even the few

minutes that remained might be snatched away from her if Melanie

followed him to the door, to the carriage block. Why hadn't she

made the opportunity during this last week? But always, Melanie

was at his side, her eyes caressing him adoringly, always friends

and neighbors and relatives were in the house and, from morning

till night, Ashley was never alone. Then, at night, the door of

the bedroom closed and he was alone with Melanie. Never once

during these last days had he betrayed to Scarlett by one look, one

word, anything but the affection a brother might show a sister or a

friend, a lifelong friend. She could not let him go away, perhaps

forever, without knowing whether he still loved her. Then, even if

he died, she could nurse the warm comfort of his secret love to the

end of her days.

After what seemed an eternity of waiting, she heard the sound of

his boots in the bedroom above and the door opening and closing.

She heard him coming down the steps. Alone! Thank God for that!

Melanie must be too overcome by the grief of parting to leave her

room. Now she would have him for herself for a few precious

minutes.

He came down the steps slowly, his spurs clinking, and she could

hear the slap-slap of his saber against his high boots. When he

came into the parlor, his eyes were somber. He was trying to smile

but his face was as white and drawn as a man bleeding from an

Internal wound. She rose as he entered, thinking with proprietary

pride that he was the handsomest soldier she had ever seen. His

long holster and belt glistened and his silver spurs and scabbard

gleamed, from the industrious polishing Uncle Peter had given them.

His new coat did not fit very well, for the tailor had been hurried

and some of the seams were awry. The bright new sheen of the gray

coat was sadly at variance with the worn and patched butternut

trousers and the scarred boots, but if he had been clothed in

silver armor he could not have looked more the shining knight to

her.

"Ashley," she begged abruptly, "may I go to the train with you?"

"Please don't. Father and the girls will be there. And anyway,

I'd rather remember you saying good-by to me here than shivering at

the depot. There's so much to memories."

Instantly she abandoned her plan. If India and Honey who disliked

her so much were to be present at the leave taking, she would have

no chance for a private word.

"Then I won't go," she said. "See, Ashley! I've another present

for you."

A little shy, now that the time had come to give it to him, she

unrolled the package. It was a long yellow sash, made of thick

China silk and edged with heavy fringe. Rhett Butler had brought

her a yellow shawl from Havana several months before, a shawl

gaudily embroidered with birds and flowers in magenta and blue.

During this last week, she had patiently picked out all the

embroidery and cut up the square of silk and stitched it into a

sash length.

"Scarlett, it's beautiful! Did you make it yourself? Then I'll