the clergy； the choirs and the parishioners。 They organized bazaars and presided over sewing circles； they chaperoned balls and picnics； they knew who made good matches and who did not； who drank secretly； who were to have babies and when。 They were authorities on the genealogies of everyone who was anyone in Georgia； South Carolina and Virginia and did not bother their heads about the other states； because they believed that no one who was anybody ever came from states other than these three。 They knew what was decorous behavior and what was not and they never failed to make their opinions known—Mrs。 Merriwether at the top of her voice； Mrs。 Elsing in an elegant die…away drawl and Mrs。 Whiting in a distressed whisper which showed how much she hated to speak of such things。 These three ladies disliked and distrusted one another as heartily as the First Triumvirate of Rome； and their close alliance was probably for the same reason。
“I told Pitty I had to have you in my hospital；” called Mrs。 Merriwether； smiling。 “Don’t you go promising Mrs。 Meade or Mrs。 Whiting！”
“I won’t；” said Scarlett； having no idea what Mrs。 Merriwether was talking about but feeling a glow of warmth at being welcomed and wanted。 “I hope to see you again soon。”
The carriage plowed its way farther and halted for a moment to permit two ladies with baskets of bandages on their arms to pick precarious passages across the sloppy street on stepping stones。 At the same moment； Scarlett’s eye was caught by a figure on the sidewalk in a brightly colored dress—too bright for street wear—covered by a Paisley shawl with fringes to the heels。 Turning she saw a tall handsome woman with a bold face and a mass of red hair； too red to be true。 It was the first time she had ever seen any woman who she knew for certain had “done something to her hair” and she watched her； fascinated。
“Uncle Peter； who is that？” she whispered。
“Ah doan know。”
“You do； too。 I can tell。 Who is she？”
“Her name Belle Watling；” said Uncle Peter； his lower lip beginning to protrude。
Scarlett was quick to catch the fact that he had not preceded the name with “Miss” or “Mrs。”
“Who is she？”
“Miss Scarlett；” said Peter darkly； laying the whip on the startled horse； “Miss Pitty ain gwine ter lak it you astin’ questions dat ain’ none of yo’ bizness。 Day’s a passel of no…count folks in dis town now dat it ain’ no use talkin’ about。”
“Good Heavens！” thought Scarlett； reproved into silence。 That must be a bad woman！”
She had never seen a bad woman before and she twisted her head and stared after her until she was lost in the crowd。
The stores and the new war buildings were farther apart now； with vacant lots between。 Finally the business section fell behind and the residences came into view。 Scarlett picked them out as old friends； the Leyden house； dignified and stately； the Bonnells’； with little white columns and green； blinds； the close…lipped red…brick Georgian home of the McLure family； behind its low box hedges。 Their progress was slower now； for from porches and gardens and sidewalks ladies called to her。 Some she knew slightly； others she vaguely remembered； but most of them she knew not at all。 Pittypat had certainly broadcast her arrival。 Little Wade had to be held up time and again； so that ladies who ventured as far through the ooze as their carriage blocks could exclaim over him。 They all cried to her that she must join their knitting and sewing circles and their hospital committees； and no one else’s； and she promised recklessly to right and left。
As they passed a rambling green clapboard house； a little black girl posted on the front steps cried； “Hyah she come；” and Dr。 Meade and his wife and little thirteen…year…old Phil emerged； calling greetings。 Scarlett recalled that they too had been at her wedding。 Mrs。 Meade mounted her carriage block and craned her neck for a view of the baby； but the doctor； disregarding the mud； plowed through to the side of the carriage。 He was tall and gaunt and wore a pointed beard of iron gray； and his clothes hung on his spare figure as though blown there by a hurricane。 Atlanta considered him the root of all strength and all wisdom and it was not strange that he had absorbed something of their belief。 But for all his habit of making oracular statements and his slightly pompous manner； he was as kindly a man as the town possessed。
After shaking her hand and prodding Wade in the stomach and complimenting him； the doctor announced that Aunt Pittypat had promised on oath that Scarlett should be on no other hospital and bandage…rolling committee save Mrs。 Meade’s。
“Oh； dear； but I’ve promised a thousand ladies already！” said Scarlett。
“Mrs。 Merriwether。 I’ll be bound！” cried Mrs。 Meade indignantly。 “Drat the woman！ I believe she meets every train！”
“I promised because I hadn’t a notion what it was all about；” Scarlett confessed。 “What are hospital committees anyway？”
Both the doctor and his wife looked slightly shocked at her ignorance。
“But； of course； you’ve been buried in the country and couldn’t know；” Mrs。 Meade apologized for her。 “We have nursing committees for different hospitals and for different days。 We nurse the men and help the doctors and make bandages and clothes and when the men are well enough to leave the hospitals we take them into our homes to convalesce till they are able to go back in the army。 And we look after the wives and families of some of the wounded who are destitute—yes； worse than destitute。 Dr。 Meade is at the Institute hospital where my committee works； and everyone says he’s marvelous and—”
“There； there； Mrs。 Meade；” said the doctor fondly。 “Don’t go bragging on me in front of folks。 It’s little enough I can do； since you wouldn’t let me go in the army。”
“ ‘Wouldn’t let！’ ” she cried indignantly。 “Me？ The town wouldn’t let you and you know it。 Why； Scarlett； when folks heard he was intending to go to Virginia as an army surgeon； all the ladies signed a petition begging him to stay here。 Of course； the town couldn’t do without you。”
There； there； Mrs。 Meade；” said the doctor； basking obviously in the praise。 “Perhaps with one boy at the front； that’s enough for the time being。”
“And I’m going next year！” cried little Phil hopping about excitedly。 “As a drummer boy。 I’m learning how to drum now。 Do you want to hear me？ I’ll run get my drum。”
“No； not now；” said Mrs。 Meade； drawing him closer to her； a sudden look of strain coming over her face。 “Not next year； darling。 Maybe the year after。”
“But the war will be over then！” he cried petulantly； pulling away from her。 “And you promised！”
Over his head the eyes of the parents met and Scarlett saw the look。 Darcy Meade was in Virginia and they were clinging closer to the little boy that was left。
Uncle Peter cleared his throat。
“Miss Pitty were in a state when Ah lef’ home an’ ef Ah doan git dar soon； she’ll done swooned。”
“Good…by。 I’ll be over this afternoon；” called Mrs。 Meade。 “And you tell Pitty for me that if you aren’t on my committee； she’s going to be in a worse state。”
The carriage slipped and slid down the muddy road and Scarlett leaned back on the cushions and smiled。 She felt better now than she had felt in months。 Atlanta； with its crowds and its hurry and its undercurrent of driving excitement； was very pleasant； very exhilarating； so very much nicer than the lonely plantation out from Charleston； where the bellow of alligators broke the night stillness； better than Charleston itself； dreaming in its gardens behind its high walls； better than Savannah with its wide streets lined with palmetto and the muddy river beside it。 Yes； and temporarily even better than Tara； dear though Tara was。
There was something exciting about this town with its narrow muddy streets； lying among rolling red hills； something raw and crude that appealed to the rawness and crudeness underlying the fine veneer that Ellen and Mammy had given her。 She suddenly felt that this was where she belonged； not in serene and quiet old cities； flat beside yellow waters。
The houses were farther and farther apart now； and leaning out Scarlett saw the red brick and slate roof of Miss Pittypat’s house。 It was almost the last house on the north side of town。 Beyond it； Peachtree road narrowed and twisted under great trees out of sight into thick quiet woods。 The neat wooden…paneled fence had been newly painted white and the front yard it enclosed was yellow starred with the last jonquils of the season。 On the front steps stood two women in black and behind them a large yellow woman with her hands under her apron and her white teeth showing in a wide smile。 Plump Miss Pittypat was teetering excitedly on tiny feet； one hand pressed to her copious bosom to still her fluttering heart。 Scarlett saw Melanie standing by her and； with a surge of dislike； she realized that the fly in the ointment of Atlanta would be this slight little person in black mourning dress； her riotous dark curls subdued to matronly smoothness and a loving smile of welcome and happiness on her heart…shaped face。
When a Southerner took the trouble to pack a trunk and travel twenty miles for a visit； the visit was seldom of shorter duration than a month； usually much longer。 Southerners were as enthusiastic visitors as they were hosts； and there was nothing unusual in relatives coming to spend the Christmas holidays and remaining until July。 Often when newly married couples went on the usual round of honeymoon visits； they lingered in some pleasant home until the birth of their second child。 Frequently elderly aunts and uncles came to Sunday dinner and remained until they were buried years later。 Visitors presented no problem； for houses were large； servants numerous and the feeding of several extra mouths a minor matter in that land of plenty。 All ages and sexes went visiting； honeymooners； young mothers showing off new babies； convalescents； the bereaved； girls whose parents were anxious to remove them from the dangers of unwise matches； girls who had reached the danger age without becoming engaged and who； it was hoped； would make suit