飘

he　died　yesterday—she　died　yesterday。”
　Queer　that　she　should　feel　nothing　now；　nothing　except　a　weariness　that　shackled　her　limbs　with　heavy　iron　chains　and　a　hunger　that　made　her　knees　tremble。　She　would　think　of　Mother　later。　She　must　put　her　mother　out　of　her　mind　now；　else　she　would　stumble　stupidly　like　Gerald　or　sob　monotonously　like　Wade。
　Pork　came　down　the　wide　dark　steps　toward　them；　hurrying　to　press　close　to　Scarlett　like　a　cold　animal　toward　a　fire。
　“Lights？”　she　questioned。　“Why　is　the　house　so　dark；　Pork？　Bring　candles。”
　“Dey　tuck　all　de　candles；　Miss　Scarlett；　all　‘cept　one　we　been　usin’　ter　fine　things　in　de　dahk　wid；　an’　it’s　‘bout　gone。　Mammy　been　usin’　a　rag　in　a　dish　of　hawg　fat　fer　a　light　fer　nussin’　Miss　Careen　an’　Miss　Suellen。”
　“Bring　what’s　left　of　the　candle；”　she　ordered。　“Bring　it　into　Mother’s—into　the　office。”
　Pork　pattered　into　the　dining　room　and　Scarlett　groped　her　way　into　the　inky　small　room　and　sank　down　on　the　sofa。　Her　father’s　arm　still　lay　in　the　crook　of　hers；　helpless；　appealing；　trusting；　as　only　the　hands　of　the　very　young　and　the　very　old　can　be。
　“He’s　an　old　man；　an　old　tired　man；”　she　thought　again　and　vaguely　wondered　why　she　could　not　care。
　Light　wavered　into　the　room　as　Pork　entered　carrying　high　a　half…burned　candle　stuck　in　a　saucer。　The　dark　cave　came　to　life；　the　sagging　old　sofa　on　which　they　sat；　the　tall　secretary　reaching　toward　the　ceiling　with　Mother’s　fragile　carved　chair　before　it；　the　racks　of　pigeonholes；　still　stuffed　with　papers　written　in　her　fine　hand；　the　worn　carpet—all；　all　were　the　same；　except　that　Ellen　was　not　there；　Ellen　with　the　faint　scent　of　lemon　verbena　sachet　and　the　sweet　look　in　her　tip…tilted　eyes。　Scarlett　felt　a　small　pain　in　her　heart　as　of　nerves　numbed　by　a　deep　wound；　struggling　to　make　themselves　felt　again。　She　must　not　let　them　come　to　life　now；　there　was　all　the　rest　of　her　life　ahead　of　her　in　which　they　could　ache。　But；　not　now！　Please；　God；　not　now！
　She　looked　into　Gerald’s　putty…colored　face　and；　for　the　first　time　in　her　life；　she　saw　him　unshaven；　his　once　florid　face　covered　with　silvery　bristles。　Pork　placed　the　candle　on　the　candle　stand　and　came　to　her　side。　Scarlett　felt　that　if　he　had　been　a　dog　he　would　have　laid　his　muzzle　in　her　lap　and　whined　for　a　kind　hand　upon　his　head。
　“Pork；　how　many　darkies　are　here？”
　“Miss　Scarlett；　dem　trashy　niggers　done　runned　away　an’　some　of　dem　went　off　wid　de　Yankees　an’—”
　“How　many　are　left？”
　“Dey’s　me；　Miss　Scarlett；　an’　Mammy。　She　been　nussin’　de　young　Misses　all　day。　An’　Dilcey；　she　settin’　up　wid　de　young　Misses　now。　Us　three；　Miss　Scarlett。”
　“Us　three”　where　there　had　been　a　hundred。　Scarlett　with　an　effort　lifted　her　head　on　her　aching　neck。　She　knew　she　must　keep　her　voice　steady。　To　her　surprise；　words　came　out　as　coolly　and　naturally　as　if　there　had　never　been　a　war　and　she　could；　by　waving　her　hand；　call　ten　house　servants　to　her。
　“Pork；　I’m　starving。　Is　there　anything　to　eat？”
　“No’m。　Dey　tuck　it　all。”
　“But　the　garden？”
　“Dey　tuhned　dey　hawses　loose　in　it。”
　“Even　the　sweet　potato　hills？”
　Something　almost　like　a　pleased　smile　broke　his　thick　lips。
　“Miss　Scarlett；　Ah　done　fergit　de　yams。　Ah　specs　dey’s　right　dar。　Dem　Yankee　folks　ain’　never　seed　no　yams　an’　dey　thinks　dey’s　jes’　roots　an’—”
　“The　moon　will　be　up　soon。　You　go　out　and　dig　us　some　and　roast　them。　There’s　no　corn　meal？　No　dried　peas？　No　chickens？”
　“No’m。　No’m。　Whut　chickens　dey　din’　eat　right　hyah　dey　cah’ied　off　‘cross　dey　saddles。”
　They—　They—　They—　Was　there　no　end　to　what　“They”　had　done？　Was　it　not　enough　to　burn　and　kill？　Must　they　also　leave　women　and　children　and　helpless　negroes　to　starve　in　a　country　which　they　had　desolated？
　“Miss　Scarlett；　Ah　got　some　apples　Mammy　buhied　unner　de　house。　We　been　eatin’　on　dem　today。”
　“Bring　them　before　you　dig　the　potatoes。　And；　Pork—I—I　feel　so　faint。　Is　there　any　wine　in　the　cellar；　even　blackberry？”
　“Oh；　Miss　Scarlett；　de　cellar　wuz　de　fust　place　dey　went。”
　A　swimming　nausea　compounded　of　hunger；　sleeplessness；　exhaustion　and　stunning　blows　came　on　suddenly　and　she　gripped　the　carved　roses　under　her　hand。
　“No　wine；”　she　said　dully；　remembering　the　endless　rows　of　bottles　in　the　cellar。　A　memory　stirred。
　“Pork；　what　of　the　corn　whisky　Pa　buried　in　the　oak　barrel　under　the　scuppernong　arbor？”
　Another　ghost　of　a　smile　lit　the　black　face；　a　smile　of　pleasure　and　respect。
　“Miss　Scarlett；　you　sho　is　de　beatenes’　chile！　Ah　done　plum　fergit　dat　bahn。”　But；　Miss　Scarlett；　dat　whisky　ain’　no　good。　Ain’　been　dar　but　‘bout　a　year　an’　whisky　ain’　no　good　fer　ladies　nohow。”
　How　stupid　negroes　were！　They　never　thought　of　anything　unless　they　were　told。　And　the　Yankees　wanted　to　free　them。
　“It’ll　be　good　enough　for　this　lady　and　for　Pa。　Hurry；　Pork；　and　dig　it　up　and　bring　us　two　glasses　and　some　mint　and　sugar　and　I’ll　mix　a　julep。”
　“Miss　Scarlett；　you　knows　dey　ain’　been　no　sugar　at　Tara　fer　de　longes’。　An’　dey　hawses　done　et　up　all　de　mint　an’　dey　done　broke　all　de　glasses。”
　If　he　says　“They”　once　more；　I’ll　scream。　I　can’t　help　it；　she　thought；　and　then；　aloud：　“Well；　hurry　and　get　the　whisky；　quickly。　We’ll　take　it　neat。”　And；　as　he　turned：　“Wait；　Pork。　There’s　so　many　things　to　do　that　I　can’t　seem　to　think。　…　Oh；　yes。　I　brought　home　a　horse　and　a　cow　and　the　cow　needs　milking；　badly；　and　unharness　the　horse　and　water　him。　Go　tell　Mammy　to　look　after　the　cow。　Tell　her　she’s　got　to　fix　the　cow　up　somehow。　Miss　Melanie’s　baby　will　die　if　he　doesn’t　get　something　to　eat　and—”
　“Miss　Melly　ain’—kain—？”　Pork　paused　delicately。
　“Miss　Melanie　has　no　milk。”　Dear　God；　but　Mother　would　faint　at　that！
　“Well；　Miss　Scarlett；　mah　Dilcey　ten’　ter　Miss　Melly’s　chile。　Mah　Dilcey　got　a　new　chile　herself　an’　she　got　mo’n　nuff　fer　both。”
　“You’ve　got　a　new　baby；　Pork？”
　Babies；　babies；　babies。　Why　did　God　make　so　many　babies？　But　no；　God　didn’t　make　them。　Stupid　people　made　them。
　“Yas’m；　big　fat　black　boy。　He—”
　“Go　tell　Dilcey　to　leave　the　girls。　I’ll　look　after　them。　Tell　her　to　nurse　Miss　Melanie’s　baby　and　do　what　she　can　for　Miss　Melanie。　Tell　Mammy　to　look　after　the　cow　and　put　that　poor　horse　in　the　stable。”
　“Dey　ain’　no　stable；　Miss　Scarlett。　Dey　use　it　fer　fiah　wood。”
　“Don’t　tell　me　any　more　what　‘They’　did。　Tell　Dilcey　to　look　after　them。　And　you；　Pork；　go　dig　up　that　whisky　and　then　some　potatoes。”
　“But；　Miss　Scarlett；　Ah　ain’　got　no　light　ter　dig　by。”
　“You　can　use　a　stick　of　firewood；　can’t　you？”
　“Dey　ain’　no　fiah　wood—Dey—”
　“Do　something。　。。。　I　don’t　care　what。　But　dig　those　things　and　dig　them　fast。　Now；　hurry。”
　Pork　scurried　from　the　room　as　her　voice　roughened　and　Scarlett　was　left　alone　with　Gerald。　She　patted　his　leg　gently。　She　noted　how　shrunken　were　the　thighs　that　once　bulged　with　saddle　muscles。　She　must　do　something　to　drag　him　from　his　apathy—but　she　could　not　ask　about　Mother。　That　must　come　later；　when　she　could　stand　it。
　“Why　didn’t　they　burn　Tara？”
　Gerald　stared　at　her　for　a　moment　as　if　not　hearing　her　and　she　repeated　her　question。
　“Why—”　he　fumbled；　“they　used　the　house　as　a　headquarters。”
　“Yankees—in　this　house？”
　A　feeling　that　the　beloved　walls　had　been　defiled　rose　in　her。　This　house；　sacred　because　Ellen　had　lived　in　it；　and　those—those—in　it。
　“So　they　were；　Daughter。　We　saw　the　smoke　from　Twelve　Oaks；　across　the　river；　before　they　came。　But　Miss　Honey　and　Miss　India　and　some　of　their　darkies　had　refugeed　to　Macon；　so　we　did　not　worry　about　them。　But　we　couldn’t　be　going　to　Macon。　The　girls　were　so　sick—your　mother—we　couldn’t　be　going。　Our　darkies　ran—I’m　not　knowing　where。　They　stole　the　wagons　and　the　mules。　Mammy　and　Dilcey　and　Pork—they　didn’t　run。　The　girls—your　mother—we　couldn’t　be　moving　them。
　“Yes；　yes。”　He　mustn’t　talk　about　Mother。　Anything　else。　Even　that　General　Sherman　himself　had　used　this　room；　Mother’s　office；　for　his　headquarters。　Anything　else。
　“The　Yankees　were　moving　on　Jonesboro；　to　cut　the　railroad。　And　they　came　up　the　road　from　the　river—thousands　and　thousands—and　cannon　and　horses—thousands。　I　met　them　on　the　front　porch。”
　“Oh；　gallant　little　Gerald！”　thought　Scarlett；　her　heart　swelling；　Gerald　meeting　the　enemy　on　the　stairs　of　Tara　as　if　an　army　stood　behind　him　instead　of　in　front　of　him。
　“They　said　for　me　to　leave；　that　they　would　be　burning　the　place。　And　I　said　that　they　would　be　burning　it　over　my　head。　We　could　not　leave—the　girls—your　mother　were—”
　“And　then？”　Must　he　revert　to　Ellen　always？
　“I　told　them　there　was　sickness　in　the　house；　the　typhoid；　and　it　was　death　to　move　them。　They　could　burn　the　roof　over　us。　I　did　not　want　to　leave　anyway—leave　Tara—”
　His　voice　trailed　off　into　silence　as　he　looked　absently　about　the　walls　and　Scarlet！　understood。　There　were　too　many　Irish　ancestors　crowding　behind　Gerald’s　shoulders；　men　who　had　died　on　scant　acres；　fighting　to　the　end　rather　than　leave　the　homes　where　they　had　lived；　plowed；