“I don’t know what’s come over the young people these days. They have no sense of responsibility. All the girls who haven’t already taken booths have more excuses than you could shake a stick at. Oh， they don’t fool me！ They just don’t want to be hampered in making up to the officers， that’s all. And they’re afraid their new dresses won’t show off behind booth counters. I wish to goodness that blockade runner—what’s his name？”
“Captain Butler，” supplied Mrs. Elsing.
“I wish he’d bring in more hospital supplies and less hoop skirts and lace. If I’ve had to look at one dress today I’ve had to look at twenty dresses that he ran in. Captain Butler—I’m sick of the name. Now， Pitty， I haven’t time to argue. You must come. Everybody will understand. Nobody will see you in the back room anyway， and Melly won’t be conspicuous. The poor McLure girls’ booth is way down at the end and not very pretty so nobody will notice you.”
“I think we should go，” said Scarlett， trying to curb her eagerness and to keep her face earnest and simple. “It is the least we can do for the hospital.”
Neither of the visiting ladies had even mentioned her name， and they turned and looked sharply at her. Even in their extremity， they had not considered asking a widow of scarcely a year to appear at a social function. Scarlett bore their gaze with a wide-eyed childlike expression.
“I think we should go and help to make it a success， all of us. I think I should go in the booth with Melly because—well， I think it would look better for us both to be there instead of just one. Don’t you think so， Melly？”
“Well，” began Melly helplessly. The idea of appearing publicly at a social gathering while in mourning was so unheard of she was bewildered.
“Scarlett’s right，” said Mrs. Merriwether， observing signs of weakening. She rose and jerked her hoops into place. “Both of you—all of you must come. Now， Pitty， don’t start your excuses again. Just think how much the hospital needs money for new beds and drugs. And I know Charlie would like you to help the Cause he died for.”
“Well，” said Pittypat， helpless as always in the presence of a stronger personality， “if you think people will understand.”
“Too good to be true！ Too good to be true！” said Scarlett’s joyful heart as she slipped unobtrusively into the pink- and yellow-draped booth that was to have been the McLure girls’. Actually she was at a party！ After a year’s seclusion， after crêpe and hushed voices and nearly going crazy with boredom， she was actually at a party， the biggest party Atlanta had ever seen. And she could see people and many lights and hear music and view for herself the lovely laces and frocks and frills that the famous Captain Butler had run through the blockade on his last trip.
She sank down on one of the little stools behind the counter of the booth and looked up and down the long hall which， until this afternoon， had been a bare and ugly drill room. How the ladies must have worked today to bring it to its present beauty. It looked lovely. Every candle and candlestick in Atlanta must be in this hall tonight， she thought， silver ones with a dozen sprangling arms， china ones with charming figurines clustering their bases， old brass stands， erect and dignified， laden with candles of all sizes and colors， smelling fragrantly of bayberries， standing on the gun racks that ran the length of the hall， on the long flower-decked tables， on booth counters， even on the sills of the open windows where， the draughts of warm summer air were just strong enough to make them flare.
In the center of the hall the huge ugly lamp， hanging from the ceiling by rusty chains， was completely transformed by twining ivy and wild grapevines that were already withering from the heat. The walls were banked with pine branches that gave out a spicy smell， making the corners of the room into pretty bowers where the chaperons and old ladies would sit. Long graceful ropes of ivy and grapevine and smilax were hung everywhere， in looping festoons on the walls， draped above the windows， twined in scallops all over the brightly colored cheesecloth booths. And everywhere amid the greenery， on flags and bunting， blazed the bright stars of the Confederacy on their background of red and blue.
The raised platform for the musicians was especially artistic. It was completely hidden from view by the banked greenery and starry bunting and Scarlett knew that every potted and tubbed plant in town was there， coleus， geranium， hydrangea， oleander， elephant ear—even Mrs. Elsing’s four treasured rubber plants， which were given posts of honor at the four corners.
At the other end of the hall from the platform， the ladies had eclipsed themselves. On this wall hung large pictures of President Davis and Georgia’s own “Little Alec” Stephens， Vice-President of the Confederacy. Above them was an enormous flag and， beneath， on long tables was the loot of the gardens of the town， ferns， banks of roses， crimson and yellow and white， proud sheaths of golden gladioli， masses of varicolored nasturtiums， tall stiff hollyhocks rearing deep maroon and creamy heads above the other flowers. Among them， candles burned serenely like altar fires. The two faces looked down on the scene， two faces as different as could be possible in two men at the helm of so momentous an undertaking： Davis with the flat cheeks and cold eyes of an ascetic， his thin proud lips set firmly； Stephens with dark burning eyes deep socketed in a face that had known nothing but sickness and pain and had triumphed over them with humor and with fire—two faces that were greatly loved.
The elderly ladies of the committee in whose hands rested the responsibility for the whole bazaar rustled in as importantly as full-rigged ships， hurried the belated young matrons and giggling girls into their booths， and then swept through the doors into the back rooms where the refreshments were being laid out. Aunt Pitty panted out after them.
