Chapter - 27 | Gone with the Wind

-seven
ON A NOONDAY IN MID-NOVEMBER, they all sat grouped about the dinner
table, eating the last of the dessert concocted by Mammy from corn meal
and dried huckleberries, sweetened with sorghum. There was a chill in the
air, the ﬁrst chill of the year, and Pork, standing behind Scarlett’s chair,
rubbed his hands together in glee and questioned: “Ain’ it ’bout time fer de
hawg killin’, Miss Scarlett?”
“You can taste those chitlins already, can’t you?” said Scarlett with a
grin. “Well, I can taste fresh pork myself and if the weather holds for a few
days more, we’ll—”
Melanie interrupted, her spoon at her lips, “Listen, dear! Somebody’s
coming!”
“Somebody hollerin’,” said Pork uneasily.
On the crisp autumn air came clear the sound of horse’s hooves,
thudding as swiftly as a frightened heart, and a woman’s voice, high
pitched, screaming: “Scarlett! Scarlett!”
Eye met eye for a dreadful second around the table before chairs were
pushed back and everyone leaped up. Despite the fear that made it shrill,
they recognized the voice of Sally Fontaine who, only an hour before, had
stopped at Tara for a brief chat on her way to Jonesboro. Now, as they all
rushed pell-mell to crowd the front door, they saw her coming up the drive
like the wind on a lathered horse, her hair streaming behind her, her
bonnet dangling by its ribbons. She did not draw rein but as she galloped
madly toward them, she waved her arm back in the direction from which
she had come.
“The Yankees are coming! I saw them! Down the road! The Yankees—”
She sawed savagely at the horse’s mouth just in time to swerve him from
leaping up the front steps. He swung around sharply, covered the side lawn
in three leaps and she put him across the four-foot hedge as if she were on

the hunting ﬁeld. They heard the heavy pounding of his hooves as he went
through the back yard and down the narrow lane between the cabins of the
quarters and knew she was cutting across the ﬁelds to Mimosa.
For a moment they stood paralyzed and then Suellen and Carreen began
to sob and clutch each other’s ﬁngers. Little Wade stood rooted, trembling,
unable to cry. What he had feared since the night he left Atlanta had
happened. The Yankees were coming to get him.
“Yankees?” said Gerald vaguely. “But the Yankees have already been
here.”
“Mother of God!” cried Scarlett, her eyes meeting Melanie’s frightened
eyes. For a swift instant there went through her memory again the horrors
of her last night in Atlanta, the ruined homes that dotted the countryside,
all the stories of rape and torture and murder. She saw again the Yankee
soldier standing in the hall with Ellen’s sewing box in his hand. She
thought: “I shall die. I shall die right here. I thought we were through with
all that. I shall die. I can’t stand any more.”
Then her eyes fell on the horse saddled and hitched and waiting for
Pork to ride him to the Tarleton place on an errand. Her horse! Her only
horse! The Yankees would take him and the cow and the calf. And the sow
and her litter—Oh, how many tiring hours it had taken to catch that sow
and her agile young! And they’d take the rooster and the setting hens and
the ducks the Fontaines had given her. And the apples and the yams in the
pantry bins. And the ﬂour and rice and dried peas. And the money in the
Yankee soldier’s wallet. They’d take everything and leave them to starve.
“They shan’t have them!” she cried aloud and they all turned startled
faces to her, fearful that her mind had cracked under the tidings. “I won’t
go hungry! They shan’t have them!”
“What is it, Scarlett? What is it?”
“The horse! The cow! The pigs! They shan’t have them! I won’t let
them have them!”
She turned swiftly to the four negroes who huddled in the doorway,
their faces a peculiarly ashen shade.
“The swamp,” she said rapidly.
“Whut swamp?”
“The river swamp, you fools! Take the pigs to the swamp. All of you.
Quickly. Pork, you and Prissy crawl under the house and get the pigs out.

Suellen, you and Carreen ﬁll the baskets with as much food as you can
carry and get to the woods. Mammy, put the silver in the well again. And
Pork! Pork, listen to me, don’t stand there like that! Take Pa with you.
Don’t ask me where! Anywhere! Go with Pork, Pa. That’s a sweet pa.”
Even in her frenzy she thought what the sight of bluecoats might do to
Gerald’s wavering mind. She stopped and wrung her hands and the
frightened sobbing of little Wade who was clutching Melanie’s skirt added
to her panic.
“What shall I do, Scarlett?” Melanie’s voice was calm amid the wailing
and tears and scurrying feet. Though her face was paper white and her
whole body trembled, the very quietness of her voice steadied Scarlett,
revealing to her that they all looked to her for commands, for guidance.
“The cow and the calf,” she said quickly. “They’re in the old pasture.
Take the horse and drive them into the swamp and—”
Before she could ﬁnish her sentence, Melanie shook off Wade’s clutches
and was down the front steps and running toward the horse, pulling up her
wide skirts as she ran. Scarlett caught a ﬂashing glimpse of thin legs, a ﬂurry
of skirts and underclothing and Melanie was in the saddle, her feet
dangling far above the stirrups. She gathered up the reins and clapped her
heels against the animal’s sides and then abruptly pulled him in, her face
twisting with horror.
“My baby!” she cried. “Oh, my baby! The Yankees will kill him! Give
him to me!”
Her hand was on the pommel and she was preparing to slide off but
Scarlett screamed at her.
“Go on! Go on! Get the cow! I’ll look after the baby! Go on, I tell you!
Do you think I’d let them get Ashley’s baby? Go on!”
Melly looked despairingly backward but hammered her heels into the
horse and, with a scattering of gravel, was off down the drive toward the
pasture.
Scarlett thought: “I never expected to see Melly Hamilton straddling a
horse!” and then she ran into the house. Wade was at her heels, sobbing,
trying to catch her ﬂying skirts. As she went up the steps, three at a bound,
she saw Suellen and Carreen with split-oak baskets on their arms, running
toward the pantry, and Pork tugging none too gently at Gerald’s arm,

dragging him toward the back porch. Gerald was mumbling querulously
and pulling away like a child.
From the back yard she heard Mammy’s strident voice: “You, Priss! You
git unner dat house an’ han’ me dem shoats! You knows mighty well Ah’s
too big ter crawl thoo dem lattices. Dilcey, comyere an’ mek dis wuthless
chile—”
“And I thought it was such a good idea to keep the pigs under the
house, so nobody could steal them,” thought Scarlett, running into her
room. “Why, oh, why didn’t I build a pen for them down in the swamp?”
She tore open her top bureau drawer and scratched about in the
clothing until the Yankee’s wallet was in her hand. Hastily she picked up
the solitaire ring and the diamond earbobs from where she had hidden
them in her sewing basket and shoved them into the wallet. But where to
hide it? In the mattress? Up the chimney? Throw it in the well? Put it in
her bosom. No, never there! The outlines of the wallet might show
through her basque and if the Yankees saw it they would strip her naked
and search her.
“I shall die if they do!” she thought wildly.
Downstairs there was a pandemonium of racing feet and sobbing voices.
Even in her frenzy, Scarlett wished she had Melanie with her. Melly with
her quiet voice, Melly who was so brave the day she shot the Yankee. Melly
was worth three of the others. Melly—what had Melly said? Oh, yes, the
baby!
Clutching the wallet to her, Scarlett ran across the hall to the room
where little Beau was sleeping in the low cradle. She snatched him up into
her arms and he awoke, waving small ﬁsts and slobbering sleepily.
She heard Suellen crying: “Come on, Carreen! Come on! We’ve got
enough. Oh, Sister, hurry!” There were wild squealings, indignant
gruntings in the back yard and, running to the window, Scarlett saw
Mammy waddling hurriedly across the cotton ﬁeld with a struggling young
pig under each arm. Behind her was Pork also carrying two pigs and
pushing Gerald before him. Gerald was stumping across the furrows,
waving his cane.
Leaning out of the window Scarlett yelled: “Get the sow, Dilcey! Make
Prissy drive her out. You can chase her across the ﬁelds.”

Dilcey looked up, her bronze face harassed. In her apron was a pile of
silver tableware. She pointed under the house.
“The sow done bit Prissy and got her penned up unner the house.”
“Good for the sow,” thought Scarlett. She hurried back into her room
and hastily gathered from their hiding place the bracelets, brooch,
miniature and cup she had found on the dead Yankee. But where to hide
them? It was awkward, carrying little Beau in one arm and the wallet and
the trinkets in the other. She started to lay him on the bed.
He set up a wail at leaving her arms and a welcome thought came to her.
What better hiding place could there be than a baby’s diaper? She quickly
turned him over, pulled up his dress and thrust the wallet down the diaper
next to his backside. He yelled louder at this treatment and she hastily
tightened the triangular garment about his threshing legs.
“Now,” she thought, drawing a deep breath, “now for the swamp!”
Tucking him screaming under one arm and clutching the jewelry to her
with the other, she raced into the upstairs hall. Suddenly her rapid steps
paused, fright weakening her knees. How silent the house was! How
dreadfully still! Had they all gone off and left her? Hadn’t anyone waited
for her? She hadn’t meant for them to leave her here alone. These days
anything could happen to a lone woman and with the Yankees coming—
She jumped as a slight noise sounded and, turning quickly, saw crouched
by the banisters her forgotten son, his eyes enormous with terror. He tried
to speak but his throat only worked silently.
“Get up, Wade Hampton,” she commanded swiftly. “Get up and walk.
Mother can’t carry you now.”
He ran to her, like a small frightened animal, and clutching her wide
skirt, buried his face in it. She could feel his small hands groping through
the folds for her legs. She started down the stairs, each step hampered by
Wade’s dragging hands and she said ﬁercely: “Turn me loose, Wade! Turn
me loose and walk!” But the child only clung the closer.
As she reached the landing, the whole lower ﬂoor leaped up at her. All
the homely, well-loved articles of furniture seemed to whisper: “Good-by!
Good-by!” A sob rose in her throat. There was the open door of the ofﬁce
where Ellen had labored so diligently and she could glimpse a corner of the
old secretary. There was the dining room, with chairs pushed awry and food
still on the plates. There on the ﬂoor were the rag rugs Ellen had dyed and

woven herself. And there was the old portrait of Grandma Robillard, with
bosoms half bared, hair piled high and nostrils cut so deeply as to give her
face a perpetual well-bred sneer. Everything which had been part of her
earliest memories, everything bound up with the deepest roots in her:
“Good-by! Good-by, Scarlett O’Hara!”
The Yankees would burn it all—all!
This was her last view of home, her last view except what she might see
from the cover of the woods or the swamp, the tall chimneys wrapped in
smoke, the roof crashing in ﬂame.
“I can’t leave you,” she thought and her teeth chattered with fear. “I
can’t leave you. Pa wouldn’t leave you. He told them they’d have to burn
you over his head. Then, they’ll burn you over my head for I can’t leave
you either. You’re all I’ve got left.”
With the decision, some of her fear fell away and there remained only a
congealed feeling in her breast, as if all hope and fear had frozen. As she
stood there, she heard from the avenue the sound of many horses’ feet, the
jingle of bridle bits and sabers rattling in scabbards and a harsh voice crying
a command: “Dismount!” Swiftly she bent to the child beside her and her
voice was urgent but oddly gentle.
“Turn me loose, Wade, honey! You run down the stairs quick and
through the back yard toward the swamp. Mammy will be there and Aunt
Melly. Run quickly, darling, and don’t be afraid.”
At the change in her tone, the boy looked up and Scarlett was appalled
at the look in his eyes, like a baby rabbit in a trap.
“Oh, Mother of God!” she prayed. “Don’t let him have a convulsion!
Not—not before the Yankees. They mustn’t know we are afraid.” And, as
the child only gripped her skirt the tighter, she said clearly: “Be a little
man, Wade. They’re only a passel of damn Yankees!”
And she went down the steps to meet them.
* * *
Sherman was marching through Georgia, from Atlanta to the sea. Behind
him lay the smoking ruins of Atlanta to which the torch had been set as
the blue army tramped out. Before him lay three hundred miles of territory

virtually undefended save by a few state militia and the old men and young
boys of the Home Guard.
Here lay the fertile state, dotted with plantations, sheltering the women
and children, the very old and the negroes. In a swath eighty miles wide
the Yankees were looting and burning. There were hundreds of homes in
ﬂames, hundreds of homes resounding with their footsteps. But, to Scarlett,
watching the bluecoats pour into the front hall, it was not a country-wide
affair. It was entirely personal, a malicious action aimed directly at her and
hers.
She stood at the foot of the stairs, the baby in her arms, Wade pressed
tightly against her, his head hidden in her skirts as the Yankees swarmed
through the house, pushing roughly past her up the stairs, dragging
furniture onto the front porch, running bayonets and knives into
upholstery and digging inside for concealed valuables. Upstairs they were
ripping open mattresses and feather beds until the air in the hall was thick
with feathers that ﬂoated softly down on her head. Impotent rage quelled
what little fear was left in her heart as she stood helpless while they
plundered and stole and ruined.
The sergeant in charge was a bow-legged, grizzled little man with a large
wad of tobacco in his cheek. He reached Scarlett before any of his men
and, spitting freely on the ﬂoor and her skirts, said brieﬂy:
“Lemme have what you got in yore hand, lady.”
She had forgotten the trinkets she had intended to hide and, with a
sneer which she hoped was as eloquent as that pictured on Grandma
Robillard’s face, she ﬂung the articles to the ﬂoor and almost enjoyed the
rapacious scramble that ensued.
“I’ll trouble you for thet ring and them earbobs.”
Scarlett tucked the baby more securely under her arm so that he hung
face downward, crimson and screaming, and removed the garnet earrings
which had been Gerald’s wedding present to Ellen. Then she stripped off
the large sapphire solitaire which Charles had given her as an engagement
ring.
“Don’t throw um. Hand um to me,” said the sergeant, putting out his
hands. “Them bastards got enough already. What else have you got?” His
eyes went over her basque sharply.

For a moment Scarlett went faint, already feeling rough hands thrusting
themselves into her bosom, fumbling at her garters.
“That is all, but I suppose it is customary to strip your victims?”
“Oh, I’ll take your word,” said the sergeant good naturedly, spitting
again as he turned away. Scarlett righted the baby and tried to soothe him,
holding her hand over the place on the diaper where the wallet was
hidden, thanking God that Melanie had a baby and that that baby had a
diaper.
Upstairs she could hear heavy boots trampling, the protesting screech of
furniture pulled across the ﬂoor, the crashing of china and mirrors, the
curses when nothing of value appeared. From the yard came loud cries:
“Head um off! Don’t let um get away!” and the despairing squawks of the
hens and the quacking and honking of the ducks and geese. A pang went
through her as she heard an agonized squealing which was suddenly stilled
by a pistol shot and she knew that the sow was dead. Damn Prissy! She had
run off and left her. If only the shoats were safe! If only the family had
gotten safely to the swamp! But there was no way of knowing.
She stood quietly in the hall while the soldiers boiled about her,
shouting and cursing. Wade’s ﬁngers were in her skirt in a terriﬁed grip. She
could feel his body shaking as he pressed against her but she could not
bring herself to speak reassuringly to him. She could not bring herself to
utter any word to the Yankees, either of pleading, protest or anger. She
could only thank God that her knees still had the strength to support her,
that her neck was still strong enough to hold her head high. But when a
squad of bearded men came lumbering down the steps, laden with an
assortment of stolen articles and she saw Charles’ sword in the hands of
one, she did cry out.
That sword was Wade’s. It had been his father’s and his grandfather’s
sword and Scarlett had given it to the little boy on his last birthday. They
had made quite a ceremony of it and Melanie had cried, cried with tears of
pride and sorrowful memory, and kissed him and said he must grow up to be
a brave soldier like his father and his grandfather. Wade was very proud of
it and often climbed upon the table beneath where it hung to pat it.
Scarlett could endure seeing her own possessions going out of the house in
hateful alien hands but not this—not her little boy’s pride. Wade, peering

from the protection of her skirts at the sound of her cry, found speech and
courage in a mighty sob. Stretching out one hand he cried:
“Mine!”
“You can’t take that!” said Scarlett swiftly, holding out her hand too.
“I can’t, hey?” said the little soldier who held it, grinning impudently at
her. “Well, I can! It’s a Rebel sword!”
“It’s—it’s not. It’s a Mexican War sword. You can’t take it. It’s my little
boy’s. It was his grandfather’s! Oh, Captain,” she cried, turning to the
sergeant, “please make him give it to me!”
The sergeant, pleased at his promotion, stepped forward.
“Lemme see thet sword, Bub,” he said.
Reluctantly, the little trooper handed it to him. “It’s got a solid-gold
hilt,” he said.
The sergeant turned it in his hand, held the hilt up to the sunlight to
read the engraved inscription.
“‘To Colonel William R. Hamilton,’” he deciphered. “‘From His Staff.
For Gallantry. Buena Vista. 1847.’”
“Ho, lady,” he said, “I was at Buena Vista myself.”
“Indeed,” said Scarlett icily.
“Was I? Thet was hot ﬁghtin’, lemme tell you. I ain’t seen such hot
ﬁghtin’ in this war as we seen in thet one. So this sword was this little
tyke’s granddaddy’s?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he can have it,” said the sergeant, who was satisﬁed enough with
the jewelry and trinkets tied up in his handkerchief.
“But it’s got a solid-gold hilt,” insisted the little trooper.
“We’ll leave her thet to remember us by,” grinned the sergeant.
Scarlett took the sword, not even saying “Thank you.” Why should she
thank these thieves for returning her own property to her? She held the
sword against her while the little cavalryman argued and wrangled with the
sergeant.
“By God, I’ll give these damn Rebels something to remember me by,”
shouted the private ﬁnally when the sergeant, losing his good nature, told
him to go to hell and not talk back. The little man went charging toward
the back of the house and Scarlett breathed more easily. They had said
nothing about burning the house. They hadn’t told her to leave so they

could ﬁre it. Perhaps—perhaps—The men came rambling into the hall
from the upstairs and the out of doors.
“Anything?” questioned the sergeant.
“One hog and a few chickens and ducks.”
“Some corn and a few yams and beans. That wildcat we saw on the
horse must have given the alarm, all right.”
“Regular Paul Revere, eh?”
“Well, there ain’t much here, Sarge. You got the pickin’s. Let’s move on
before the whole country gets the news we’re comin’.”
“Didja dig under the smokehouse? They generally buries things there.”
“Ain’t no smokehouse.”
“Didja dig in the nigger cabins?”
“Nothin’ but cotton in the cabins. We set ﬁre to it.”
For a brief instant Scarlett saw the long hot days in the cotton ﬁeld, felt
again the terrible ache in her back, the raw bruised ﬂesh of her shoulders.
All for nothing. The cotton was gone.
“You ain’t got much, for a fac’, have you, lady?”
“Your army has been here before,” she said coolly.
“That’s a fac’. We were in this neighborhood in September,” said one of
the men, turning something in his hand. “I’d forgot.”
Scarlett saw that it was Ellen’s gold thimble that he held. How often she
had seen it gleaming in and out of Ellen’s fancy work. The sight of it
brought back too many hurting memories of the slender hand which had
worn it. There it lay in this stranger’s calloused dirty palm and soon it
would ﬁnd its way North and onto the ﬁnger of some Yankee woman who
would be proud to wear stolen things. Ellen’s thimble!
Scarlett dropped her head so the enemy could not see her cry and the
tears fell slowly down on the baby’s head. Through the blur, she saw the
men moving toward the doorway, heard the sergeant calling commands in a
loud rough voice. They were going and Tara was safe, but with the pain of
Ellen’s memory on her, she was hardly glad. The sound of the banging
sabers and horses’ hooves brought little relief and she stood, suddenly weak
and nerveless, as they moved off down the avenue, every man laden with
stolen goods, clothing, blankets, pictures, hens and ducks, the sow.
Then to her nostrils was borne the smell of smoke and she turned, too
weak with lessening strain, to care about the cotton. Through the open

windows of the dining room, she saw smoke drifting lazily out of the negro
cabins. There went the cotton. There went the tax money and part of the
money which was to see them through this bitter winter. There was
nothing she could do about it either, except watch. She had seen ﬁres in
cotton before and she knew how difﬁcult they were to put out, even with
many men laboring at it. Thank God, the quarters were so far from the
house! Thank God, there was no wind today to carry sparks to the roof of
Tara!
Suddenly she swung about, rigid as a pointer, and stared with horror-
struck eyes down the hall, down the covered passageway toward the
kitchen. There was smoke coming from the kitchen!
Somewhere between the hall and the kitchen, she laid the baby down.
Somewhere she ﬂung off Wade’s grip, slinging him against the wall. She
burst into the smoke-ﬁlled kitchen and reeled back, coughing, her eyes
streaming tears from the smoke. Again she plunged in, her skirt held over
her nose.
The room was dark, lit as it was by one small window, and so thick with
smoke that she was blinded, but she could hear the hiss and crackle of
ﬂames. Dashing a hand across her eyes, she peered squinting and saw thin
lines of ﬂame creeping across the kitchen ﬂoor, toward the walls. Someone
had scattered the blazing logs in the open ﬁreplace across the whole room
and the tinder-dry pine ﬂoor was sucking in the ﬂames and spewing them
up like water.
Back she rushed to the dining room and snatched a rag rug from the
ﬂoor, spilling two chairs with a crash.
“I’ll never beat it out—never, never! Oh, God, if only there was
someone to help! Tara is gone—gone! Oh, God! This was what that little
wretch meant when he said he’d give me something to remember him by!
Oh, if I’d only let him have the sword!”
In the hallway she passed her son lying in the corner with his sword. His
eyes were closed and his face had a look of slack, unearthly peace.
“My God! He’s dead! They’ve frightened him to death!” she thought in
agony but she raced by him to the bucket of drinking water which always
stood in the passageway by the kitchen door.
She soused the end of the rug into the bucket and drawing a deep breath
plunged again into the smoke-ﬁlled room slamming the door behind her.

For an eternity she reeled and coughed, beating the rug against the lines of
ﬁre that shot swiftly beyond her. Twice her long skirt took ﬁre and she
slapped it out with her hands. She could smell the sickening smell of her
hair scorching, as it came loose from its pins and swept about her shoulders.
The ﬂames raced ever beyond her, toward the walls of the covered runway,
ﬁery snakes that writhed and leaped and, exhaustion sweeping her, she
knew that it was hopeless.
Then the door swung open and the sucking draft ﬂung the ﬂames higher.
It closed with a bang and, in the swirling smoke, Scarlett, half blind, saw
Melanie, stamping her feet on the ﬂames, beating at them with something
dark and heavy. She saw her staggering, heard her coughing, caught a
lightning-ﬂash glimpse of her set white face and eyes narrowed to slits
against the smoke, saw her small body curving back and forth as she swung
her rug up and down. For another eternity they fought and swayed, side by
side, and Scarlett could see that the lines of ﬁre were shortening. Then
suddenly Melanie turned toward her and, with a cry, hit her across the
shoulders with all her might. Scarlett went down in a whirlwind of smoke
and darkness.
When she opened her eyes she was lying on the back porch, her head
pillowed comfortably on Melanie’s lap, and the afternoon sunlight was
shining on her face. Her hands, face and shoulders smarted intolerably from
burns. Smoke was still rolling from the quarters, enveloping the cabins in
thick clouds, and the smell of burning cotton was strong. Scarlett saw wisps
of smoke drifting from the kitchen and she stirred frantically to rise.
But she was pushed back as Melanie’s calm voice said: “Lie still, dear.
The ﬁre’s out.”
She lay quiet for a moment, eyes closed, sighing with relief, and heard
the slobbery gurgle of the baby near by and the reassuring sound of Wade’s
hiccoughing. So he wasn’t dead, thank God! She opened her eyes and
looked up into Melanie’s face. Her curls were singed, her face black with
smut but her eyes were sparkling with excitement and she was smiling.
“You look like a nigger,” murmured Scarlett, burrowing her head wearily
into its soft pillow.
“And you look like the end man in a minstrel show,” replied Melanie
equably.
“Why did you have to hit me?”

“Because, my darling, your back was on ﬁre. I didn’t dream you’d faint,
though the Lord knows you’ve had enough today to kill you…. I came back
as soon as I got the stock safe in the woods. I nearly died, thinking about
you and the baby alone. Did—the Yankees harm you?”
“If you mean did they rape me, no,” said Scarlett, groaning as she tried
to sit up. Though Melanie’s lap was soft, the porch on which she was lying
was far from comfortable. “But they’ve stolen everything, everything.
We’ve lost everything—Well, what is there to look so happy about?”
“We haven’t lost each other and our babies are all right and we have a
roof over our heads,” said Melanie and there was a lilt in her voice. “And
that’s all anyone can hope for now…. Goodness but Beau is wet! I suppose
the Yankees even stole his extra diapers. He—Scarlett, what on earth is in
his diaper?”
She thrust a suddenly frightened hand down the baby’s back and
brought up the wallet. For a moment she looked at it as if she had never
seen it before and then she began to laugh, peal on peal of mirth that had
in it no hint of hysteria.
“Nobody but you would ever have thought of it,” she cried and ﬂinging
her arms around Scarlett’s neck she kissed her. “You are the beatenest sister
I ever had!”
Scarlett permitted the embrace because she was too tired to struggle,
because the words of praise brought balm to her spirit and because, in the
dark smoke-ﬁlled kitchen, there had been born a greater respect for her
sister-in-law, a closer feeling of comradeship.
“I’ll say this for her,” she thought grudgingly, “she’s always there when
you need her.”