In your home, for you--and ladies like you--are the hearts of all

of us, all that we have left. They have taken the flower of our

manhood and the laughter of our young women. They have broken our

health, uprooted our lives and unsettled our habits. They have

ruined our prosperity, set us back fifty years and placed too heavy

a burden on the shoulders of our boys who should be in school and

our old men who should be sleeping in the sun. But we will build

back, because we have hearts like yours to build upon. And as long

as we have them, the Yankees can have the rest!"

Until Scarlett's figure reached such proportions that even Aunt

Pitty's big black shawl did not conceal her condition, she and

Frank frequently slipped through the back hedge to join the summer-

night gatherings on Melanie's porch. Scarlett always sat well out

of the light, hidden in the protecting shadows where she was not

only inconspicuous but could, unobserved, watch Ashley's face to

her heart's content.

It was only Ashley who drew her to the house, for the conversations

bored and saddened her. They always followed a set pattern--first,

hard times; next, the political situation; and then, inevitably,

the war. The ladies bewailed the high prices of everything and

asked the gentlemen if they thought good times would ever come

back. And the omniscient gentlemen always said, indeed they would.

Merely a matter of time. Hard times were just temporary. The

ladies knew the gentlemen were lying and the gentlemen knew the

ladies knew they were lying. But they lied cheerfully just the

same and the ladies pretended to believe them. Everyone knew hard

times were here to stay.

Once the hard times were disposed of, the ladies spoke of the

Increasing impudence of the negroes and the outrages of the

Carpetbaggers and the humiliation of having the Yankee soldiers

loafing on every corner. Did the gentlemen think the Yankees would

ever get through with reconstructing Georgia? The reassuring

gentlemen thought Reconstruction would be over in no time--that is,

just as soon as the Democrats could vote again. The ladies were

considerate enough not to ask when this would be. And having

finished with politics, the talk about the war began.

Whenever two former Confederates met anywhere, there was never but

one topic of conversation, and where a dozen or more gathered

together, it was a foregone conclusion that the war would be

spiritedly refought. And always the word "if" had the most

prominent part in the talk.

"If England had recognized us--" "If Jeff Davis had commandeered

all the cotton and gotten it to England before the blockade

tightened--" "If Longstreet had obeyed orders at Gettysburg--"

"If Jeb Stuart hadn't been away on that raid when Marse Bob needed

him--" "If we hadn't lost Stonewall Jackson--" "If Vicksburg

hadn't fallen--" "If we could have held on another year--" And

always: "If they hadn't replaced Johnston with Hood--" or "If

they'd put Hood in command at Dalton instead of Johnston--"

If! If! The soft drawling voices quickened with an old excitement

as they talked in the quiet darkness--infantryman, cavalryman,

cannoneer, evoking memories of the days when life was ever at high

tide, recalling the fierce heat of their midsummer in this forlorn

sunset of their winter.

"They don't talk of anything else," thought Scarlett. "Nothing but

the war. Always the war. And they'll never talk of anything but

the war. No, not until they die."

She looked about, seeing little boys lying in the crooks of their

fathers' arms, breath coming fast, eyes glowing, as they heard of

midnight stories and wild cavalry dashes and flags planted on enemy

breastworks. They were hearing drums and bugles and the Rebel

yell, seeing footsore men going by in the rain with torn flags

slanting.

"And these children will never talk of anything else either.

They'll think it was wonderful and glorious to fight the Yankees

and come home blind and crippled--or not come home at all. They

all like to remember the war, to talk about it. But I don't. I

don't even like to think about it. I'd forget it all if I could--

oh, if I only could!"

She listened with flesh crawling as Melanie told tales of Tara,

making Scarlett a heroine as she faced the invaders and saved

Charles' sword, bragging how Scarlett had put out the fire.

Scarlett took no pleasure or pride in the memory of these things.

She did not want to think of them at all.

"Oh, why can't they forget? Why can't they look forward and not

back? We were fools to fight that war. And the sooner we forget