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for the benefit of the hospitals。 The red road lay checkered in shade and sun glare beneath the over…arching trees and the many hooves kicked up little red clouds of dust。 One wagon； ahead of the others； bore four stout negroes with axes to cut evergreens and drag down the vines； and the back of this wagon was piled high with napkin…covered hampers； split…oak baskets of lunch and a dozen watermelons。 Two of the black bucks were equipped with banjo and harmonica and they were rendering a spirited version of “If You Want to Have a Good Time； Jine the Cavalry。” Behind them streamed the merry cavalcade； girls cool in flowered cotton dresses； with light shawls； bonnets and mitts to protect their skins and little parasols held over their heads； elderly ladies placid and smiling amid the laughter and carriage…to…carriage calls and jokes； convalescents from the hospitals wedged in between stout chaperons and slender girls who made great fuss and to…do over them； officers on horseback idling at snail’s pace beside the carriages—wheels creaking； spurs jingling； gold braid gleaming； parasols bobbing； fans swishing； negroes singing。 Everybody was riding out Peachtree road to gather greenery and have a picnic and melon cutting。 Everybody； thought Scarlett； morosely； except me。
They all waved and called to her as they went by and she tried to respond with a good grace； but it was difficult。 A hard little pain had started in her heart and was traveling slowly up toward her throat where it would become a lump and the lump would soon become tears。 Everybody was going to the picnic except her。 And everybody was going to the bazaar and the ball tonight except her。 That is everybody except her and Pittypat and Melly and the other unfortunates in town who were in mourning。 But Melly and Pittypat did not seem to mind。 It had not even occurred to them to want to go。 It had occurred to Scarlett。 And she did want to go； tremendously。
It simply wasn’t fair。 She had worked twice as hard as any girl in town； getting things ready for the bazaar。 She had knitted socks and baby caps and afghans and mufflers and tatted yards of lace and painted china hair receivers and mustache cups。 And she had embroidered half a dozen sofa…pillow cases with the Confederate flag on them。 （The stars were a bit lopsided； to be sure； some of them being almost round and others having six or even seven points； but the effect was good。） Yesterday she had worked until she was worn out in the dusty old bam of an Armory draping yellow and pink and green cheesecloth on the booths that lined the walls。 Under the supervision of the Ladies’ Hospital Committee； this was plain hard work and no fun at all。 It was never fun to be around Mrs。 Merriwether and Mrs。 Elsing and Mrs。 Whiting and have them boss you like you were one of the darkies。 And have to listen to them brag about how popular their daughters were。 And； worst of all； she had burned two blisters on her fingers helping Pittypat and Cookie make layer cakes for raffling。
And now； having worked like a field hand； she had to retire decorously when the fun was just beginning。 Oh； it wasn’t fair that she should have a dead husband and a baby yelling in the next room and be out of everything that was pleasant。 Just a little over a year ago； she was dancing and wearing bright clothes instead of this dark mourning and was practically engaged to three boys。 She was only seventeen now and there was still a lot of dancing left in her feet。 Oh； it wasn’t fair！ Life was going past her； down a hot shady summer road； life with gray uniforms and jingling spurs and flowered organdie dresses and banjos playing。 She tried not to smile and wave too enthusiastically to the men she knew best； the ones she’d nursed in the hospital； but it was hard to subdue her dimples； hard to look as though her heart were in the grave—when it wasn’t。
Her bowing and waving were abruptly halted when Pittypat entered the room； panting as usual from climbing the stairs； and jerked her away from the window unceremoniously。
“Have you lost your mind； honey； waving at men out of your bedroom window？ I declare； Scarlett； I’m shocked！ What would your mother say？”
“Well； they didn’t know it was my bedroom。”
“But they’d suspect it was your bedroom and that’s just as bad。 Honey； you mustn’t do things like that Everybody will be talking about you and saying you are fast—and anyway； Mrs。 Merriwether knew it was your bedroom。”
“And I suppose she’ll tell all the boys； the old cat。”
“Honey； hush！ Dolly Merriwether’s my best friend。”
“Well； she’s a cat just the same—oh； I’m sorry； Auntie； don’t cry！ I forgot it was my bedroom window。 I won’t do it again—I—I just wanted to see them go by。 I wish I was going。”
“Honey！”
“Well； I do。 I’m so tired of sitting at home。”
“Scarlett； promise me you won’t say things like that。 People would talk so。 They’d say you didn’t have the proper respect for poor Charlie—”
“Oh； Auntie； don’t cry！”
“Oh； now I’ve made you cry； too；” sobbed Pittypat； in a pleased way； fumbling in her skirt pocket for her handkerchief。
The hard little pain had at last reached Scarlett’s throat and she wailed out loud—not； as Pittypat thought； for poor Charlie but because the last sounds of the wheels and the laughter were dying away。 Melanie rustled in from her room； a worried frown puckering her forehead； a brush in her hands； her usually tidy black hair； freed of its net； fluffing about her face in a mass of tiny curls and waves。
“Darlings！ What is the matter？”
“Charlie！” sobbed Pittypat； surrendering utterly to the pleasure of her grief and burying her head on Melly’s shoulder。
“Oh；” said Melly； her lip quivering at the mention of her brother’s name。 “Be brave； dear。 Don’t cry。 Oh； Scarlett！”
Scarlett had thrown herself on the bed and was sobbing at the top of her voice； sobbing for her lost youth and the pleasures of youth that were denied her； sobbing with the indignation and despair of a child who once could get anything she wanted by sobbing and now knows that sobbing can no longer help her。 She burrowed her head in the pillow and cried and kicked her feet at the tufted counterpane。
“I might as well be dead！” she sobbed passionately。 Before such an exhibition of grief； Pittypat’s easy tears ceased and Melly flew to the bedside to comfort her sister…in…law。
“Dear； don’t cry！ Try to think how much Charlie loved you and let that comfort you！ Try to think of your darling baby。”
Indignation at being misunderstood mingled with Scarlett’s forlorn feeling of being out of everything and strangled all utterance。 That was fortunate； for if she could have spoken she would have cried out truths coached in Gerald’s forthright words。 Melanie patted her shoulder and Pittypat tiptoed heavily about the room pulling down the shades。
“Don’t do that！” shouted Scarlett； raising a red and swollen face from the pillow。 I’m not dead enough for you to pull down the shades—though I might as well be。 Oh； do go away and leave me alone！”
She sank her face into the pillow again and； after a whispered conference； the two standing over her tiptoed out。