In the matter of "comp'ny" Mammy was equally adamant. No lice-

ridden soldier should come into Tara. She marched them behind a

clump of thick bushes, relieved them of their uniforms, gave them a

basin of water and strong lye soap to wash with and provided them

with quilts and blankets to cover their nakedness, while she boiled

their clothing in her huge wash pot. It was useless for the girls

to argue hotly that such conduct humiliated the soldiers. Mammy

replied that the girls would be a sight more humiliated if they

found lice upon themselves.

When the soldiers began arriving almost daily, Mammy protested

against their being allowed to use the bedrooms. Always she feared

lest some louse had escaped her. Rather than argue the matter,

Scarlett turned the parlor with its deep velvet rug into a

dormitory. Mammy cried out equally loudly at the sacrilege of

soldiers being permitted to sleep on Miss Ellen's rug but Scarlett

was firm. They had to sleep somewhere. And, in the months after

the surrender, the deep soft nap began to show signs of wear and

finally the heavy warp and woof showed through in spots where heels

had worn it and spurs dug carelessly.

Of each soldier, they asked eagerly of Ashley. Suellen, bridling,

always asked news of Mr. Kennedy. But none of the soldiers had

ever heard of them nor were they inclined to talk about the

missing. It was enough that they themselves were alive, and they

did not care to think of the thousands in unmarked graves who would

never come home.

The family tried to bolster Melanie's courage after each of these

disappointments. Of course, Ashley hadn't died in prison. Some

Yankee chaplain would have written if this were true. Of course,

he was coming home but his prison was so far away. Why, goodness,

It took days riding on a train to make the trip and if Ashley was

walking, like these men . . . Why hadn't he written? Well,

darling, you know what the mails are now--so uncertain and slipshod

even where mail routes are re-established. But suppose--suppose he

had died on the way home. Now, Melanie, some Yankee woman would

have surely written us about it! . . . Yankee women! Bah! . . .

Melly, there ARE some nice Yankee women. Oh, yes, there are! God

couldn't make a whole nation without having some nice women in it!

Scarlett, you remember we did meet a nice Yankee woman at Saratoga

that time--Scarlett, tell Melly about her!

"Nice, my foot!" replied Scarlert. "She asked me how many

bloodhounds we kept to chase our darkies with! I agree with Melly.

I never saw a nice Yankee, male or female. But don't cry, Melly!

Ashley'll come home. It's a long walk and maybe--maybe he hasn't

got any boots."

Then at the thought of Ashley barefooted, Scarlett could have

cried. Let other soldiers limp by in rags with their feet tied up

in sacks and strips of carpet, but not Ashley. He should come home

on a prancing horse, dressed in fine clothes and shining boots, a

plume in his hat. It was the final degradation for her to think of

Ashley reduced to the state of these other soldiers.

One afternoon in June when everyone at Tara was assembled on the

back porch eagerly watching Pork cut the first half-ripe watermelon

of the season, they heard hooves on the gravel of the front drive.

Prissy started languidly toward the front door, while those left

behind argued hotly as to whether they should hide the melon or

keep it for supper, should the caller at the door prove to be a

soldier.

Melly and Carreen whispered that the soldier guest should have a

share and Scarlett, backed by Suellen and Mammy, hissed to Pork to

hide it quickly.

"Don't be a goose, girls! There's not enough for us as it is and