In the man? And how could dear Melly defend him?

As Scarlett went obediently into the parlor, a silence fell on the

porch, a silence that pulsed with resentment toward Rhett. How

could anyone not believe with heart and soul in the invincibility

of General Johnston and his men? Believing was a sacred duty. And

those who were so traitorous as not to believe should, at least,

have the decency to keep their mouths shut.

Scarlett struck a few chords and her voice floated out to them from

the parlor, sweetly, sadly, in the words of a popular song:

"Into a ward of whitewashed walls

Where the dead and dying lay--

Wounded with bayonets, shells and balls--

Somebody's darling was borne one day.

"Somebody's darling! so young and so brave!

Wearing still on his pale, sweet face--

Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave--

The lingering light of his boyhood's grace."

"Matted and damp are the curls of gold," mourned Scarlett's faulty

soprano, and Fanny half rose and said in a faint, strangled voice:

"Sing something else!"

The piano was suddenly silent as Scarlett was overtaken with

surprise and embarrassment. Then she hastily blundered into the

opening bars of "Jacket of Gray" and stopped with a discord as she

remembered how heartrending that selection was too. The piano was

silent again for she was utterly at a loss. All the songs had to

do with death and parting and sorrow.

Rhett rose swiftly, deposited Wade in Fanny's lap, and went into

the parlor.

"Play 'My Old Kentucky Home,'" he suggested smoothly, and Scarlett

gratefully plunged into it. Her voice was joined by Rhett's

excellent bass, and as they went into the second verse those on the

porch breathed more easily, though Heaven knew it was none too

cheery a song, either.

"Just a few more days for to tote the weary load!

No matter, 'twill never be light!

Just a few more days, till we totter in the road!

Then, my old Kentucky home, good night!"

Dr. Meade's prediction was right--as far as it went. Johnston did

stand like an iron rampart in the mountains above Dalton, one

hundred miles away. So firmly did he stand and so bitterly did he

contest Sherman's desire to pass down the valley toward Atlanta

that finally the Yankees drew back and took counsel with

themselves. They could not break the gray lines by direct assault

and so, under cover of night, they marched through the mountain

passes in a semicircle, hoping to come upon Johnston's rear and cut

the railroad behind him at Resaca, fifteen miles below Dalton.

With those precious twin lines of iron in danger, the Confederates

left their desperately defended rifle pits and, under the

starlight, made a forced march to Resaca by the short, direct road.

When the Yankees, swarming out of the hills, came upon them, the

Southern troops were waiting for them, entrenched behind

breastworks, batteries planted, bayonets gleaming, even as they had

been at Dalton.

When the wounded from Dalton brought in garbled accounts of Old

Joe's retreat to Resaca, Atlanta was surprised and a little

disturbed. It was as though a small, dark cloud had appeared in

the northwest, the first cloud of a summer storm. What was the

General thinking about, letting the Yankees penetrate eighteen

miles farther into Georgia? The mountains were natural fortresses,

even as Dr. Meade had said. Why hadn't Old Joe held the Yankees

there?

Johnston fought desperately at Resaca and repulsed the Yankees

again, but Sherman, employing the same flanking movement, swung his