The side window of the newspaper office opened and a hand was extended， bearing a sheaf of long narrow galley proofs， smeared with fresh ink and thick with names closely printed. The crowd fought for them， tearing the slips in half， those obtaining them trying to back out through the crowd to read， those behind pushing forward， crying： “Let me through！”
“Hold the reins，” said Rhett shortly， swinging to the ground and tossing the bridle to Uncle Peter. They saw his heavy shoulders towering above the crowd as he went through， brutally pushing and shoving. In a while he was back， with half a dozen in his hands. He tossed one to Melanie and distributed the others among the ladies in the nearest carriages， the Misses McLure， Mrs. Meade， Mrs. Merriwether， Mrs. Elsing.
“Quick， Melly，” cried Scarlett， her heart in her throat， exasperation sweeping her as she saw that Melly’s hands were shaking so that it was impossible for her to read.
“Take it，” whispered Melly， and Scarlett snatched it from her. The Ws. Where were the Ws？ Oh， there they were at the bottom and all smeared up. “White，” she read and her voice shook， “Wilkens ... Winn ... Zebulon ... Oh， Melly， he’s not on it！ He’s not on it！ Oh， for God’s sake， Auntie， Melly， pick up the salts！ Hold her up， Melly.”
Melly， weeping openly with happiness， steadied Miss Pitty’s rolling head and held the smelling salts under her nose. Scarlett braced the fat old lady on the other side， her heart singing with joy. Ashley was alive. He wasn’t even wounded. How good God was to pass him by！ How—She heard a low moan and， turning， saw Fanny Elsing lay her head on her mother’s bosom， saw the casualty list flutter to the floor of the carriage， saw Mrs. Elsing’s thin lips quiver as she gathered her daughter in her arms and said quietly to the coachman： “Home. Quickly.” Scarlett took a quick glance at the lists. Hugh Elsing was not listed. Fanny must have had a beau and now he was dead. The crowd made way in sympathetic silence for the Elsings’ carriage， and after them followed the little wicker pony cart of the McLure girls. Miss Faith was driving， her face like a rock， and for once， her teeth were covered by her lips. Miss Hope， death in her face， sat erect beside her， holding her sister’s skirt in a tight grasp. They looked like very old women. Their young brother Dallas was their darling and the only relative the maiden ladies had in the world. Dallas was gone.
“Melly！ Melly！” cried Maybelle， joy in her voice， “René is safe！ And Ashley， too！ Oh， thank God！” The shawl had slipped from her shoulders and her condition was most obvious but， for once， neither she nor Mrs. Merriwether cared. “Oh， Mrs. Meade！ René—” Her voice changed， swiftly， “Melly， look！—Mrs. Meade， please！ Darcy isn’t—？”
Mrs. Meade was looking down into her lap and she did not raise her head when her name was called， but the face of little Phil beside her was an open book that all might read.
“There， there， Mother，” he said， helplessly. Mrs. Meade， looked up， meeting Melanie’s eyes.
“He won’t need those boots now，” she said.
“Oh， darling！” cried Melly， beginning to sob， as she shoved Aunt Pitty onto Scarlett’s shoulder and scrambled out of the carriage and toward that of the doctor’s wife.
“Mother， you’ve still got me，” said Phil， in a forlorn effort at comforting the white-faced woman beside him. “And if you’ll just let me， I’ll go kill all the Yank—”
Mrs. Meade clutched his arm as if she would never let it go， said “No！” in a strangled voice and seemed to choke.
“Phil Meade， you hush your mouth！” hissed Melanie， climbing in beside Mrs. Meade and taking her in her arms. “Do you think it’ll help your mother to have you off getting shot too？ I never heard anything so silly. Drive us home， quick！”
She turned to Scarlett as Phil picked up the reins.
“As soon as you take Auntie home， come over to Mrs. Meade’s. Captain Butler， can you get word to the doctor？ He’s at the hospital.”
The carriage moved off through the dispersing crowd. Some of the women were weeping with joy， but most looked too stunned to realize the heavy blows that had fallen upon them. Scarlett bent her head over the blurred lists， reading rapidly， to find names of friends. Now that Ashley was safe she could think of other people. Oh， how long the list was！ How heavy the toll from Atlanta， from all of Georgia.
Good Heavens！ “Calvert—Raiford， Lieutenant.” Raif！ Suddenly she remembered the day， so long ago， when they had run away together but decided to come home at nightfall because they were hungry and afraid of the dark.
“Fontaine—Joseph K.， private，” Little bad-tempered Joe！ And Sally hardly over having her baby！
“Munroe—LaFayette， Captain.” And Lafe had been engaged to Cathleen Calvert. Poor Cathleen！ Hers had been a double loss， a brother and a sweetheart. But Sally’s loss was greater—a brother and a husband.
Oh， this was too terrible. She was almost afraid to read further. Aunt Pitty was heaving and sighing on her shoulder and， with small ceremony， Scarlett pushed her over into a comer of the carriage and continued her reading.
Surely， surely—there couldn’t be three “Tarleton” names on that list. Perhaps—perhaps the hurried printer had repeated the name by error. But no. There they were. “Tarleton—Brenton， Lieutenant.” “Tarleton—Stuart， Corporal.” “Tarleton—Thomas， private.” And Boyd， dead the first year of the war， was buried God knew where in Virginia. All the Tarleton boys gone. Tom and the lazy long-legged twins with their love of gossip and their absurd practical jokes and Boyd who had the grace of a dancing master and the tongue of a wasp.
She could not read any more. She could not know if any other of those boys with whom she had grown up， danced， flirted， kissed were on that list. She wished that she could cry， do something to ease the iron fingers that were digging into her throat.
“I’m sorry， Scarlett，” said Rhett. She looked up at him. She had forgotten he was still there. “Many of your friends？”