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She
moaned
as
a
sharp
pebble
cut
into
her
blistered
foot
.
What
was
she
doing
here
?
Why
was
Scarlett
O'Hara
,
the
belle
of
the
County
,
the
sheltered
pride
of
Tara
,
tramping
down
this
rough
road
almost
barefoot
?
Her
little
feet
were
made
to
dance
,
not
to
limp
,
her
tiny
slippers
to
peep
daringly
from
under
bright
silks
,
not
to
collect
sharp
pebbles
and
dust
.
She
was
born
to
be
pampered
and
waited
upon
,
and
here
she
was
,
sick
and
ragged
,
driven
by
hunger
to
hunt
for
food
in
the
gardens
of
her
neighbors
.
At
the
bottom
of
the
long
hill
was
the
river
and
how
cool
and
still
were
the
tangled
trees
overhanging
the
water
!
She
sank
down
on
the
low
bank
,
and
stripping
off
the
remnants
of
her
slippers
and
stockings
,
dabbled
her
burning
feet
in
the
cool
water
.
It
would
be
so
good
to
sit
here
all
day
,
away
from
the
helpless
eyes
of
Tara
,
here
where
only
the
rustle
of
leaves
and
the
gurgle
of
slow
water
broke
the
stillness
.
But
reluctantly
she
replaced
her
shoes
and
stockings
and
trudged
down
the
bank
,
spongy
with
moss
,
under
the
shady
trees
.
The
Yankees
had
burned
the
bridge
but
she
knew
of
a
footlog
bridge
across
a
narrow
point
of
the
stream
a
hundred
yards
below
.
She
crossed
it
cautiously
and
trudged
uphill
the
hot
half-mile
to
Twelve
Oaks
.
There
towered
the
twelve
oaks
,
as
they
had
stood
since
Indian
days
,
but
with
their
leaves
brown
from
fire
and
the
branches
burned
and
scorched
.
Within
their
circle
lay
the
ruins
of
John
Wilkes
'
house
,
the
charred
remains
of
that
once
stately
home
which
had
crowned
the
hill
in
white-columned
dignity
.
The
deep
pit
which
had
been
the
cellar
,
the
blackened
field-stone
foundations
and
two
mighty
chimneys
marked
the
site
.
One
long
column
,
half-burned
,
had
fallen
across
the
lawn
,
crushing
the
cape
jessamine
bushes
.
Scarlett
sat
down
on
the
column
,
too
sick
at
the
sight
to
go
on
.
This
desolation
went
to
her
heart
as
nothing
she
had
ever
experienced
.
Here
was
the
Wilkes
pride
in
the
dust
at
her
feet
.
Here
was
the
end
of
the
kindly
,
courteous
house
which
had
always
welcomed
her
,
the
house
where
in
futile
dreams
she
had
aspired
to
be
mistress
.
Here
she
had
danced
and
dined
and
flirted
and
here
she
had
watched
with
a
jealous
,
hurting
heart
how
Melanie
smiled
up
at
Ashley
.
Here
,
too
,
in
the
cool
shadows
of
the
trees
,
Charles
Hamilton
had
rapturously
pressed
her
hand
when
she
said
she
would
marry
him
.
"
Oh
,
Ashley
,
"
she
thought
,
"
I
hope
you
are
dead
!
I
could
never
bear
for
you
to
see
this
.
"
Ashley
had
married
his
bride
here
but
his
son
and
his
son
's
son
would
never
bring
brides
to
this
house
.
There
would
be
no
more
matings
and
births
beneath
this
roof
which
she
had
so
loved
and
longed
to
rule
.
The
house
was
dead
and
to
Scarlett
,
it
was
as
if
all
the
Wilkeses
,
too
,
were
dead
in
its
ashes
.
"
I
wo
n't
think
of
it
now
.
I
ca
n't
stand
it
now
.
I
'll
think
of
it
later
,
"
she
said
aloud
,
turning
her
eyes
away
.
Seeking
the
garden
,
she
limped
around
the
ruins
,
by
the
trampled
rose
beds
the
Wilkes
girls
had
tended
so
zealously
,
across
the
back
yard
and
through
the
ashes
to
the
smokehouse
,
barns
and
chicken
houses
.
The
split-rail
fence
around
the
kitchen
garden
had
been
demolished
and
the
once
orderly
rows
of
green
plants
had
suffered
the
same
treatment
as
those
at
Tara
.
The
soft
earth
was
scarred
with
hoof
prints
and
heavy
wheels
and
the
vegetables
were
mashed
into
the
soil
.
There
was
nothing
for
her
here
.
She
walked
back
across
the
yard
and
took
the
path
down
toward
the
silent
row
of
whitewashed
cabins
in
the
quarters
,
calling
"
Hello
!
"
as
she
went
.
But
no
voice
answered
her
.
Not
even
a
dog
barked
.
Evidently
the
Wilkes
negroes
had
taken
flight
or
followed
the
Yankees
.
She
knew
every
slave
had
his
own
garden
patch
and
as
she
reached
the
quarters
,
she
hoped
these
little
patches
had
been
spared
.
