I'll live on it for the rest of my life!"

He bent suddenly to retrieve his hat and she had one glimpse of his

face. It was the unhappiest face she was ever to see, a face from

which all aloofness had fled. Written on it were his love for and

joy that she loved him, but battling them both were shame and

despair.

"Good-by," he said hoarsely.

The door clicked open and a gust of cold wind swept the house,

fluttering the curtains. Scarlett shivered as she watched him run

down the walk to the carriage, his saber glinting in the feeble

winter sunlight, the fringe of his sash dancing jauntily.

CHAPTER XVI

January and February of 1864 passed, full of cold rains and wild

winds, clouded by pervasive gloom and depression. In addition to

the defeats at Gettysburg and Vicksburg, the center of the Southern

line had caved. After hard fighting, nearly all of Tennessee was

now held by the Union troops. But even with this loss on the top

of the others, the South's spirit was not broken. True, grim

determination had taken the place of high-hearted hopes, but people

could still find a silver lining in the cloud. For one thing, the

Yankees had been stoutly repulsed in September when they had tried

to follow up their victories in Tennessee by an advance into

Georgia.

Here in the northwesternmost corner of the state, at Chickamauga,

serious fighting had occurred on Georgia soil for the first time

since the war began. The Yankees had taken Chattanooga and then

had marched through the mountain passes into Georgia, but they had

been driven back with heavy losses.

Atlanta and its railroads had played a big part in making

Chickamauga a great victory for the South. Over the railroads that

led down from Virginia to Atlanta and then northward to Tennessee,

General Longstreet's corps had been rushed to the scene of the

battle. Along the entire route of several hundred miles, the

tracks had been cleared and all the available rolling stock in the

Southeast had been assembled for the movement.

Atlanta had watched while train after train rolled through the

town, hour after hour, passenger coaches, box cars, flat cars,

filled with shouting men. They had come without food or sleep,

without their horses, ambulances or supply trains and, without

waiting for the rest, they had leaped from the trains and into the

battle. And the Yankees had been driven out of Georgia, back into

Tennessee.

It was the greatest feat of the war, and Atlanta took pride and

personal satisfaction in the thought that its railroads had made

the victory possible.

But the South had needed the cheering news from Chickamauga to

strengthen its morale through the winter. No one denied now that

the Yankees were good fighters and, at last, they had good

generals. Grant was a butcher who did not care how many men he

slaughtered for a victory, but victory he would have. Sheridan was

a name to bring dread to Southern hearts. And, then, there was a

man named Sherman who was being mentioned more and more often. He

had risen to prominence in the campaigns in Tennessee and the West,

and his reputation as a determined and ruthless fighter was

growing.

None of them, of course, compared with General Lee. Faith in the

General and the army was still strong. Confidence in ultimate