“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. She heard Melanie say to Pittypat in a low voice as they went down the stairs：
“Aunt Pitty， I wish you wouldn’t speak of Charles to her. You know how it always affects her. Poor thing， she gets that queer look and I know she’s trying not to cry. We mustn’t make it harder for her.”
Scarlett kicked the coverlet in impotent rage， trying to think of something bad enough to say.
“God’s nightgown！” she cried at last， and felt somewhat relieved. How could Melanie be content to stay at home and never have any fun and wear crêpe for her brother when she was only eighteen years old？ Melanie did not seem to know， or care， that life was riding by with jingling spurs.
“But she’s such a stick，” thought Scarlett， pounding the pillow. “And she never was popular like me， so she doesn’t miss the things I miss. And—and besides she’s got Ashley and I—I haven’t got anybody！” And at this fresh woe， she broke into renewed outcries.
She remained gloomily in her room until afternoon and then the sight of the returning picnickers with wagons piled high with pine boughs， vines and ferns did not cheer her. Everyone looked ‘happily tired as they waved to her again and she returned their greetings drearily. Life was a hopeless affair and certainly not worth living.
Deliverance came in the form she least expected when， during the after-dinner-nap period， Mrs. Merriwether and Mrs. Elsing drove up. Startled at having callers at such an hour， Melanie， Scarlett and Aunt Pittypat roused themselves， hastily hooked their basques， smoothed their hair and descended to the parlor.
“Mrs. Bonnell’s children have the measles，” said Mrs. Merriwether abruptly， showing plainly that she held Mrs. Bonnell personally responsible for permitting such a thing to happen.
“And the McLure girls have been called to Virginia，” said Mrs. Elsing in her die-away voice， fanning herself languidly as if neither this nor anything else mattered very much. “Dallas McLure is wounded.”
“How dreadful！ chorused their hostesses. “Is poor Dallas—”
“No. Just through the shoulder，” said Mrs. Merriwether briskly. “But it couldn’t possibly have happened at a worse time. The girls are going North to bring him home. But， skies above， we haven’t time to sit here talking. We must hurry back to the Armory and get the decorating done. Pitty， we need you and Melly tonight to take Mrs. Bonnell’s and the McLure girls’ places.”
“Oh， but， Dolly， we can’t go.”
“Don’t say ‘can’t’ to me， Pittypat Hamilton，” said Mrs. Merriwether vigorously. “We need you to watch the darkies with the refreshments. That was what Mrs. Bonnell was to do. And Melly， you must take the McLure girls’ booth.”
“Oh， we just couldn’t—with poor Charlie dead only a—”
“I know how you feel but there isn’t any sacrifice too great for the Cause，” broke in Mrs. Elsing in a soft voice that settled matters.
“Oh， we’d love to help but—why can’t you get some sweet pretty girls to take the booths？”
Mrs. Merriwether snorted a trumpeting snort.
