Tears started from Mammy's eyes as she leaned down to pick up the buckets. In silence she carried them to the bedside and， turning down the sheet， began pulling up the night clothes of Suellen and Carreen.Scarlett， peering at her sisters in the dim flaring light， saw that Carreen wore a nightgown， clean but in tatters， and Suellen lay wrapped in an old negligé，a brown linen garment heavy with tagging ends of Irish lace.Mammy cried silently as she sponged the gaunt bodies， using the remnant of an old apron as a cloth.
“Miss Scarlett， it wuz dem Slatterys， dem trashy， no-good， low-down po'-w'ite Slatterys dat kilt Miss Ellen. Ah done tole her an'tole her it doan do no good doin'things fer trashy folks， but Miss Ellen wuz so sot in her ways an'，her heart so sof’she couldn’never say no ter nobody whut needed her.”
“Slatterys？”questioned Scarlett， bewildered.“How do they come in？”
“Dey wuz sick wid disyere thing，”Mammy gestured with her rag to the two naked girls， dripping with water on their damp sheet.“Ole Miss Slattery's gal， Emmie， come down wid it an'Miss Slattery come hotfootin'it up hyah after Miss Ellen， lak she allus done w'en anything wrong. Why din'she nuss her own？Miss Ellen had mo’n she could tote anyways.But Miss Ellen she went down dar an’she nuss Emmie.An’Miss Ellen wuzn’well a-tall herseff， Miss Scarlett.Yo’ma hadn’been well fer de longes’.Dey ain’been too much ter eat roun’hyah， wid de commissary stealin’eve’y thing us growed.An’Miss Ellen eat lak a bird anyways.An’Ah tole her ter let dem w’ite trash alone， but she din’pay me no mine.Well’m，‘bout de time Emmie look lak she gittin’better， Miss Carreen come down wid it.Yas’m， de typhoy fly right up de road an’ketch Miss Carreen， an’den down come Miss Suellen.So Miss Ellen， she tuck an’nuss dem too.
“Wid all de fightin'up de road an'de Yankees‘cross de river an'us not knowin'what wuz gwine ter happen ter us an'de fe’el han’s runnin’off eve’y night， Ah’s‘bout crazy. But Miss Ellen jes’as cool as a cucumber.‘Cept she wuz worried ter a ghos’‘bout de young Misses kase we couldn’get no medicines nor nuthin’.An’one night she say ter me after we done sponge off de young Misses‘bout ten times， she say，‘Mammy， effen Ah could sell mah soul， Ah’d sell it fer some ice ter put on mah gals’haids.’
“She wouldn'let Mist'Gerald come in hyah， nor Rosa nor Teena， nobody but me， kase Ah done had de typhoy. An'den it tuck her， Miss Scarlett， an'Ah seed right off dat'twarnt no use.”
Mammy straightened up and， raising her apron， dried her streaming eyes.
“She went fas'，Miss Scarlett， an'even dat nice Yankee doctah couldn'do nuthin'fer her. She din'know nuthin’a-tall.Ah call ter her an’talk ter her but she din’even know her own Mammy.”
“Did she—did she ever mention me—call for me？”
“No， honey. She think she a lil gal back in Savannah.She din'call nobody by name.”
Dilcey stirred and laid the sleeping baby across her knees.
“Yes'm， she did. She did call somebody.”
“You hesh yo'mouf， you Injun-nigger！”Mammy turned with threateningviolence on Dilcey.
“Hush， Mammy！Who did she call， Dilcey？Pa？”
“No'm. Not yo'pa.It wuz the night the cotton buhnt—”
“Has the cotton gone—tell me quickly！”
“Yes'm， it buhnt up. The sojers rolls it out of the shed into the back yard and hollers，‘Here the bigges'bonfiah in Georgia，'and tech it off.”
Three years of stored cotton—one hundred and fifty thousand dollars， all in one blaze！
“And the fiah light up the place lak it wuz day—we wuz scared the house would buhn， too， and it wuz so bright in this hyah room that you could mos'pick a needle often the flo. And w'en the light shine in the winder， it look lak it wake Miss Ellen up and she set right up in bed and cry out loud， time and agin：‘Feeleep！Feeleep！'I ain'never heerd no seth name but it wuz a name and she wuz callin'him.”
Mammy stood as though turned to stone glaring at Dilcey and Scarlett dropped her head into her hands. Philippe—who was he and what bad he been to Mother that she died calling him？
The long road from Atlanta to Tara bad ended， ended in a blank wall， the road that was to end in Ellen's arms. Never again could Scarlett lie down， as a child， secure beneath her father's roof with the protection of her mother's love wrapped about her like an eiderdown quilt.There was no security or haven to which she could turn now.No turning or twisting would avoid this dead end to which she had come.There was no one on whose shoulders she could rest her burdens.Her father was old and stunned， her sisters ill， Melanie frail and weak， the children helpless， and the negroes looking up to her with childlike faith， clinging to her skirts， knowing that Ellen's daughter would be the refuge Ellen had always been.
Through the window， in the faint light of the rising moon， Tara stretched before her， negroes gone， acres desolate， barns ruined， like a body bleeding under her eyes， like her own body， slowly bleeding. This was the end of the road， quivering old age， sickness， hungry mouths， helpless hands plucking at her skirts.And at the end of this road， there was nothing—nothing but Scarlett O'Hara Hamilton， nineteen years old， a widow with a little child.
What would she do with all of this？Aunt Pitty and the Burrs in Macon could take Melanie and her baby. If the girls recovered， Ellen's family would have to take them， whether they liked it or not.And she and Gerald could turn to Uncle James and Andrew.
She looked at the thin forms， tossing before her， the sheets about them moist and dark from dripping water. She did not like Suellen.She saw it now with a sudden clarity.She had never liked her.She did not especially love Carreen—she could not love anyone who was weak.But they were of her blood， part of Tara.No， she could not let them live out their lives in their aunts'homes as poor relations.An O'Hara a poor relation， living on charity bread and sufferance！Oh， never that！
