There was laughter about the skimpy fare and the Tarleton girls giggled as they told of makeshifts for clothes， as if they were telling the most amusing of jokes. Melanie met them halfway， surprising Scarlett with her unexpected vivacity as she told of trials at Tara， making light of hardships. Scarlett could hardly speak at all. The room seemed so empty without the four great Tarleton boys， lounging and smoking and teasing. And if it seemed empty to her， what must it seem to the Tarletons who were offering a smiling front to their neighbors？
Carreen had said little during the meal but when it was over she slipped over to Mrs. Tarleton’s side and whispered something. Mrs. Tarleton’s face changed and the brittle smile left her lips as she put her arm around Carreen’s slender waist. They left the room， and Scarlett， who felt she could not endure the house another minute， followed them. They went down the path through the garden and Scarlett saw they were going toward the burying ground. Well， she couldn’t go back to the house now. It would seem too rude. But what on earth did Carreen mean dragging Mrs. Tarleton out to the boys’ graves when Beatrice was trying so hard to be brave？
There were two new marble markers in the brick-enclosed lot under the funereal cedars—so new that no rain had splashed them with red dust.
“We got them last week，” said Mrs. Tarleton proudly. “Mr. Tarleton went to Macon and brought them home in the wagon.”
Tombstones！ And what they must have cost！ Suddenly Scarlett did not feel as sorry for the Tarletons as she had at first. Anybody who would waste precious money on tombstones when food was so dear， so almost unattainable， didn’t deserve sympathy. And there were several lines carved on each of the stones. The more carving， the more money. The whole family must be crazy！ And it had cost money， too， to bring the three boys’ bodies home. They had never found Boyd or any trace of him.
Between the graves of Brent and Stuart was a stone which read： “They were lovely and pleasant in their lives， and in their death they were not divided.”
On the other stone were the names of Boyd and Tom with something in Latin which began “Dulce et—” but it meant nothing to Scarlett who had managed to evade Latin at the Fayetteville Academy.
All that money for tombstones！ Why， they were fools！ She felt as indignant as if her own money had been squandered.
Carreen’s eyes were shining oddly.
“I think it’s lovely，” she whispered pointing to the first stone.
Carreen would think it lovely. Anything sentimental stirred her.
“Yes，” said Mrs. Tarleton and her voice was soft， “we thought it very fitting—they died almost at the same time. Stuart first and then Brent who caught up the flag he dropped.”
As the girls drove back to Tara， Scarlett was silent for a while， thinking of what she had seen in the various homes， remembering against her will the County in its glory， with visitors at all the big houses and money plentiful， negroes crowding the quarters and the well-tended fields glorious with cotton.
“In another year， there’ll be little pines all over these fields，” she thought and looking toward the encircling forest she shuddered. “Without the darkies， it will be all we can do to keep body and soul together. Nobody can run a big plantation without the darkies， and lots of the fields won’t be cultivated at all and the woods will take over the fields again. Nobody can plant much cotton， and what will we do then？ What’ll become of country folks？ Town folks can manage somehow. They’ve always managed. But we country folks will go back a hundred years like the pioneers who had little cabins and just scratched a few acres—and barely existed.
“No—” she thought grimly， “Tara isn’t going to be like that. Not even if I have to plow myself. This whole section， this whole state can go back to woods if it wants to， but I won’t let Tara go. And I don’t intend to waste my money on tombstones or my time crying about the war. We can make out somehow. I know we could make out somehow if the men weren’t all dead. Losing the darkies isn’t the worst part about this. It’s the loss of the men， the young men.” She thought again of the four Tarletons and Joe Fontaine， of Raiford Calvert and the Munroe brothers and all the boys from Fayetteville and Jonesboro whose names she had read on the casualty lists. “If there were just enough men left， we could manage somehow but—”
Another thought struck her—suppose she wanted to marry again. Of course， she didn’t want to marry again. Once was certainly enough. Besides， the only man she’d ever wanted was Ashley and he was married if he was still living. But suppose she would want to marry. Who would there be to marry her？ The thought was appalling.
“Melly，” she said， “what’s going to happen to Southern girls？”
“What do you mean？”
“Just what I say. What’s going to happen to them？ There’s no one to marry them. Why， Melly， with all the boys dead， there’ll be thousands of girls all over the South who’ll die old maids.”
“And never have any children，” added Melanie， to whom this was the most important thing.
Evidently the thought was not new to Suellen who sat in the back of the wagon， for she suddenly began to cry. She had not heard from Frank Kennedy since Christmas. She did not know if the lack of mail service was the cause， or if he had merely trifled with her affections and then forgotten her. Or maybe he had been killed in the last days of the war！ The latter would have “been infinitely preferable to his forgetting her， for at least there was some dignity about a dead love， such as Carreen and India Wilkes had， but none about a deserted fiancée.
“Oh， in the name of God， hush！” said Scarlett.
“Oh， you can talk，” sobbed Suellen， “because you’ve been married and had a baby and everybody knows some man wanted you. But look at me！ And you’ve got to be mean and throw it up to me that I’m an old maid when I can’t help myself. I think you’re hateful.”
