Melly, it's like I said the other day.

Of course it was no pleasant thought, marrying Yankee white trash, but after all a girl couldn't live alone on a plantation; she had to have a husband to help her run it.

Cathleen's plight seemed to her more startling than catastrophic.

It was annoying that Melanie always seemed to grasp more of situations than she herself did.

Fiddle-dee-dee! cried Scarlett, beginning to be irritated.

In love? Oh, Scarlett, don't even suggest such a horrid thing! Oh, poor Cathleen! Poor Cade!

Melly, is she crazy? You know she can't be in love with him.

Scarlett stared, still dazed.

Melanie looked after her, the tears streaming down her face.

Then Cathleen flapped the bridle reins sharply and the old mule moved off.

Cathleen bent down and Melanie tiptoed.

It was all very bewildering to Scarlett who was still trying to grasp the idea that Cathleen Calvert was going to marry an overseer��Cathleen, daughter of a rich planter, Cathlee ...

There were bright tears on Melanie's lashes and understanding in her eyes, and before them, Cathleen's lips curved into the crooked smile of a brave child who tries not to cry.

Melanie looked up and met Cathleen's hard eyes.

Well, I must be going.

You see, my stepmother and the children are going North for good, tomorrow.

And he is going to die in some comfort and peace if I can manage it, without worry about who will take care of me when he's gone.

There seemed to be no feeling in her voice.

He is dying, said Cathleen shortly.

How is Cade? asked Scarlett, utterly at a loss but fumbling for some words to break the awkward silence.

The white brittle mask was back again and she picked up the reins.

I only came to tell you.

Well, I must go.

Melanie dropped her hand but still did not look up.

And don't pat me! I can't stand that either.

Her head was low.

Melanie said nothing but patted the foot in its awkward home-made shoe which hung from the stirrup.

I shall die!

Scarlett could not even find voice to say Oh! but Cathleen, peering down suddenly at Melanie, said in a low savage voice: If you cry, Melly, I can't stand it.

Yes, Mr. Hilton, our overseer.

Yes, said Cathleen, shortly.

Is it someone we know, dear?

Then Melanie spoke.

They digested this in silence, looking up at her, puzzled.

I came to tell you that I'm going to be married tomorrow, in Jonesboro��and I'm not inviting you all to come.

Tomorrow, said Cathleen quietly and there was something in her voice which took the eager smiles from their faces.

Cathy, how grand!

I just came to tell you that I'm going to be married.

I won't get down, thank you, she said.

And now there was not a trace of that girl in the stiff figure sitting on the mule.

How pretty and fresh Cathleen had been that day in a swirl of blue organdie with fragrant roses at her sash and little black velvet slippers laced about her small ankles.

Scarlett suddenly remembered the day of the Wilkes barbecue when she and Cathleen had whispered together about Rhett Butler.

But her back was erect and her head was high as she nodded to them.

Cathleen was as white as Cade had been the day Scarlett called, white and hard and brittle, as if her face would shatter if she spoke.

She rode up to the front porch but did not dismount, and Scarlett and Melanie, who had been watching the sunset, went down the steps to meet her.

Her dress was of faded gingham of the type once worn only by house servants, and her sunbonnet was secured under her chin by a piece of twine.

Her sidesaddle was strapped on as sorry a mule as Scarlett had ever seen, a flop-eared lame brute, and Cathleen was almost as sorry looking as the animal she rode.

One day not long after this, Cathleen Calvert rode up to Tara at sunset.

They drove home the rest of the way in silence,

No one can take their places.