r animal since the night before。 Dead men and dead horses； yes； and dead mules； lying by the road； swollen； covered with flies； but nothing alive。 No far…off cattle lowed； no birds sang； no wind waved the trees。 Only the tired plop…plop of the horse’s feet and the weak wailing of Melanie’s baby broke the stillness。
The countryside lay as under some dread enchantment Or worse still； thought Scarlett with a chill； like the familiar and dear face of a mother； beautiful and quiet at last； after death agonies。 She felt that the once…familiar woods were full of ghosts。 Thousands had died in the fighting near Jonesboro。 They were here in these haunted woods where the slanting afternoon sun gleamed eerily through unmoving leaves； friends and foes； peering at her in her rickety wagon； through eyes blinded with blood and red dust—glazed； horrible eyes。
“Mother！ Mother！” she whispered。 If she could only win to Ellen！ If only； by a miracle of God； Tara were still standing and she could drive up the long avenue of trees and go into the house and see her mother’s kind； tender face； could feel once more the soft capable hands that drove out fear； could clutch Ellen’s skirts and bury her face in them。 Mother would know what to do。 She wouldn’t let Melanie and her baby die。 She would drive away all ghosts and fears with her quiet “Hush； hush。” But Mother was ill； perhaps dying。
Scarlett laid the whip across the weary rump of the horse。 They must go faster！ They had crept along this never…ending road all the long hot day。 Soon it would be night and they would be alone in this desolation that was death。 She gripped the reins tighter with hands that were blistered and slapped them fiercely on the horse’s back； her aching arms burning at the movement。
If she could only reach the kind arms of Tara and Ellen and lay down her burdens； far too heavy for her young shoulders—the dying woman； the fading baby； her own hungry little boy； the frightened negro； all looking to her for strength； for guidance； all reading in her straight back courage she did not possess and strength which had long since failed。
The exhausted horse did not respond to the whip or reins but shambled on； dragging his feet； stumbling on small rocks and swaying as if ready to fall to his knees。 But； as twilight came； they at last entered the final lap of the long journey。 They rounded the bend of the wagon path and turned into the main road。 Tara was only a mile away！
Here loomed up the dark bulk of the mock…orange hedge that marked the beginning of the Macintosh property。 A little farther on； Scarlett drew rein in front of the avenue of oaks that led from the road to old Angus Macintosh’s house。 She peered through the gathering dusk down the two lines of ancient trees。 All was dark。 Not a single light showed in the house or in the quarters。 Straining her eyes in the darkness she dimly discerned a sight which had grown familiar through that terrible day—two tall chimneys； like gigantic tombstones towering above the ruined second floor； and broken unlit windows blotching the walls like still； blind eyes。
“Hello！” she shouted； summoning all her strength。 “Hello！”
Prissy clawed at her in a frenzy of fright and Scarlett； turning； saw that her eyes were rolling in her head。
“Doan holler； Miss Scarlett！ Please； doan holler agin！” she whispered； her voice shaking。 “Dey ain’ no tellin’ whut mout answer！”
“Dear God！” thought Scarlett； a shiver running through her。 “Dear God！ She’s right Anything might come out of there！”
She flapped the reins and urged the horse forward。 The sight of the Macintosh house had pricked the last bubble of hope remaining to her。 It was burned； in rums； deserted； as were all the plantations she had passed that day。 Tara lay only half a mite away； on the same road； right in the path of the army。 Tara was leveled； too！ She would find only the blackened bricks； starlight shining through the roofless walls； Ellen and Gerald gone； the girls gone； Mammy gone； the negroes gone； God knows where； and this hideous stillness over everything。
Why had she come on this fool’s errand； against all common sense； dragging Melanie and her child？ Better that they had died in Atlanta than； tortured by this day of burning sun and jolting wagon； to die in the silent ruins of Tara。
But Ashley had left Melanie in her care。 Take care of her。” Oh； that beautiful； heartbreaking day when he had kissed her good…by before he went away forever！ “You’ll take care of her； won’t you？ Promise！” And she had promised。 Why had she ever bound herself with such a promise； doubly binding now that Ashley was gone？ Even in her exhaustion she hated Melanie； hated the tiny mewing voice of her child which； fainter and fainter； pierced the stillness。 But she had promised and now they belonged to her； even as Wade and Prissy belonged to her； and she must struggle and fight for them as long as she had strength or breath。 She could have left them in Atlanta； dumped Melanie into the hospital and deserted her。 But had she done that； she could never face Ashley； either on this earth or in the hereafter and tell him she had left his wife and child to die among strangers。
Oh； Ashley！ Where was he tonight while she toiled down this haunted road with his wife and baby？ Was he alive and did he think of her as he lay behind the bars at Rock Island？ Or was he dead of smallpox months ago； rotting in some long ditch with hundreds of other Confederates？
Scarlett’s taut nerves almost cracked as a sudden noise sounded in the underbrush near them。 Prissy screamed loudly； throwing herself to the floor of the wagon； the baby beneath her。 Melanie stirred feebly； her hands seeking the baby； and Wade covered his eyes and cowered； too frightened to cry。 Then the bushes beside them crashed apart under heavy hooves and a low moaning bawl assaulted their ears。
“It’s only a cow；” said Scarlett； her voice rough with fright。 “Don’t be a fool； Prissy。 You’ve mashed the baby and frightened Miss Melly and Wade。”
“It’s a ghos’；” moaned Prissy； writhing face down on the wagon boards。
Turning deliberately； Scarlett raised the tree limb she had been using as a whip and brought it down across Prissy’s back。 She was too exhausted and weak from fright to tolerate weakness in anyone else。
“Sit up； you fool；” she said； “before I wear this out on you。”
Yelping； Prissy raised her head and peering over the side of the wagon saw it was； indeed； a cow； a red and white animal which stood looking at them appealingly with large frightened eyes。 Opening its mouth； it lowed again as if in pain。
“Is it hurt？ That doesn’t sound like an ordinary moo。”
“Soun’ ter me lak her bag full an’ she need milkin’ bad；” said Prissy； regaining some measure of control。 “Spec it one of Mist’ Macintosh’s dat de niggers driv in de woods an’ de Yankees din’ git。”
“Well take it with us；” Scarlett decided swiftly。 “Then we can have some milk for the baby。”
“How all we gwine tek a cow wid us； Miss Scarlett？ We kain tek no cow wid us。 Cow ain’ no good nohow effen she ain’ been milked lately。 Dey bags swells up and busts。 Dat’s why she hollerin’。”
“Since you know so much about it； take off your petticoat and tear it up and tie her to the back of the wagon。”
“Miss Scarlett； you knows Ah ain’ had no petticoat fer a month an’ did Ah have one； Ah wouldn’ put it on her fer nuthin’。 Ah nebber had no truck wid cows。 Ah’s sceered of cows。”
Scarlett laid down the reins and pulled up her skirt。 The lace…trimmed petticoat beneath was the last garment she possessed that was pretty—and whole。 She untied the waist tape and slipped it down over her feet； crushing the soft linen folds between her hands。 Rhett had brought her that linen and lace from Nassau on the last boat he slipped through the blockade and she had worked a week to make the garment。 Resolutely she took it by the hem and jerked； put it in her mouth and gnawed； until finally the material gave with a rip and tore the length。 She gnawed furiously； tore with both hands and the petticoat lay in strips in her hands。 She knotted the ends with fingers that bled from blisters and shook from fatigue。
“Slip this over her horns；” she directed。 But Prissy balked。
“Ah’s sceered of cows； Miss Scarlett。 Ah ain’ nebber had nuthin’ ter do wid cows。 Ah ain’ no yard nigger。 Ah’s a house nigger。”
“You’re a fool nigger； and the worst day’s work Pa ever did was to buy you；” said Scarlett slowly； too tired for anger。 “And if I ever get the use of my arm again； I’ll wear this whip out on you。”
There； she thought； I’ve said “nigger” and Mother wouldn’t like that at all。
Prissy rolled her eyes wildly； peeping first at the set face of her mistress and then at the cow which bawled plaintively。 Scarlett seemed the less dangerous of the two； so Prissy clutched at the sides of the wagon and remained where she was。
Stiffly； Scarlett climbed down from the seat； each movement of agony of aching muscles。 Prissy was not the only one who was “sceered” of cows。 Scarlett had always feared them； even the mildest cow seemed sinister to her； but this was no time to truckle to small fears when great ones crowded so thick upon her。 Fortunately the cow was gentle。 In its pain it had sought human companionship and help and it made no threatening gesture as she looped one end of the torn petticoat about its horns。 She tied the other end to the back of the wagon； as securely as her awkward fingers would permit。 Then； as she started back toward the driver’s seat； a vast weariness assailed her and she swayed dizzily。 She clutched the side of the wagon to keep from falling。
Melanie opened her eyes and； seeing Scarlett standing beside her； whispered： “Dear—are we home？”
Home！ Hot tears came to Scarlett’s eyes at the word。 Home。 Melanie did not know there was no home and that they were alone in a mad and desolate world。
“Not yet；” she said； as gently as the constriction of her throat would permit； “but we will be； soon。 I’ve just found a cow and soon well have some milk for you and the baby。”
“Poor baby；” whispered Melanie； her hand creeping feebly toward the child and falling shor