Scarlett knew Uncle Henry wasn’t lying. The few letters she had had from him in connection with Charles’ property showed that. The old lawyer was battling valiantly to save the house and the one piece of downtown property where the warehouse had been， so Wade and Scarlett would have something left from the wreckage. Scarlett knew he was carrying these taxes for her at a great sacrifice.
“Of course， he hasn’t any money，” thought Scarlett grimly. “Well， check him and Aunt Pitty off my list. There’s nobody left but Rhett. I’ll have to do it. I must do it. But I mustn’t think about it now. ... I must get her to talking about Rhett so I can casually suggest to her to invite him to call tomorrow.”
She smiled and squeezed the plump palms of Aunt Pitty between her own.
“Darling Auntie，” she said， “don’t let’s talk about distressing things like money any more. Let’s forget about them and talk of pleasanter things. You must tell me all the news about our old friends. How is Mrs. Merriwether， and Maybelle？ I heard that Maybelle’s little Creole came home safely. How are the Elsings and Dr. and Mrs. Meade？”
Pittypat brightened at the change of subject and her baby face stopped quivering with tears. She gave detailed reports about old neighbors， what they were doing and wearing and eating and thinking. She told with accents of horror how， before René Picard came home from the war， Mrs. Merriwether and Maybelle had made ends meet by baking pies and selling them to the Yankee soldiers. Imagine that！ Sometimes there were two dozen Yankees standing in the back yard of the Merriwether home， waiting for the baking to be finished. Now that René was home， he drove an old wagon to the Yankee camp every day and sold cakes and pies and beaten biscuits to the soldiers. Mrs. Merriwether said that when she made a little more money she was going to open a bake shop downtown. Pitty did not wish to criticize but after all— As for herself， said Pitty， she would rather starve than have such commerce with Yankees. She made a point of giving a disdainful look to every soldier she met， and crossed to the other side of the street in as insulting a manner as possible， though， she said， this was quite inconvenient in wet weather. Scarlett gathered that no sacrifice， even though it be muddy shoes， was too great to show loyalty to the Confederacy， in so far as Miss Pittypat was concerned.
Mrs. Meade and the doctor had lost their home when the Yankees fired the town and they had neither the money nor the heart to rebuild， now that Phil and Darcy were dead. Mrs. Meade said she never wanted a home again， for what was a home without children and grandchildren in it？ They were very lonely and had gone to live with the Elsings who had rebuilt the damaged part of their home. Mr. and Mrs. Whiting had a room there， too， and Mrs. Bonnell was talking of moving in， if she was fortunate enough to rent her house to a Yankee officer and his family.
“But how do they all squeeze in？” cried Scarlett “There’s Mrs. Elsing and Fanny and Hugh—”
“Mrs. Elsing and Fanny sleep in the parlor and Hugh in the attic，” explained Pitty， who knew the domestic arrangements of all her friends. “My dear， I do hate to tell you this but—Mrs. Elsing calls them ‘paying guests’ but， Pitty dropped her voice， “they are really nothing at all except boarders. Mrs. Elsing is running a boarding “house！ Isn’t that dreadful？”
“I think it’s wonderful，” said Scarlett shortly. “I only wish we’d had ‘paying guests’ at Tara for the last year instead of free boarders. Maybe we wouldn’t be so poor now.”
“Scarlett， how can you say such things？ Your poor mother must be turning in her grave at the very thought of charging money for the hospitality of Tara！ Of course， Mrs. Elsing was simply forced to it because， while she took in fine sewing and Fanny painted china and Hugh made a little money peddling firewood， they couldn’t make ends meet. Imagine darling Hugh forced to peddle wood！ And he all set to be a fine lawyer！ I could just cry at the things our boys are reduced to！”
Scarlett thought of the rows of cotton beneath the glaring coppery sky at Tara and how her back had ached as she bent over them. She remembered the feel of plow handles between her inexperienced， blistered palms and she felt that Hugh Elsing was deserving of no special sympathy. What an innocent old fool Pitty was and， despite the ruin all around her， how sheltered！
“If he doesn’t like peddling， why doesn’t He practice law？ Or isn’t there any law practice left in Atlanta？”
“Oh dear， yes！ There’s plenty of law practice. Practically everybody is suing everybody else these days. With everything burned down and boundary lines wiped out， no one knows just where their land begins or ends. But you can’t get any pay for suing because nobody has any money. So Hugh sticks to his peddling. ... Oh， I almost forgot！ Did I write you？ Fanny Elsing is getting married tomorrow night and， of course， you must attend. Mrs. Elsing will be only too pleased to have you when she knows you’re in town. I do hope you have some other frock besides that one. Not that it isn’t a very sweet frock， darling， but—well， it does look a bit worn. Oh， you have a pretty frock？ I’m so glad because it’s going to be the first real wedding we’ve had in Atlanta since before the town fell. Cake and wine and dancing afterward， though I don’t know how the Elsings can afford it， they are so poor.”
“Who is Fanny marrying？ I thought after Dallas McLure was killed at Gettysburg—”
“Darling， you mustn’t criticize Fanny. Everybody isn’t as loyal to the dead as you are to poor Charlie. Let me see. What is his name？ I can never remember names—Tom somebody. I knew his mother well， we went to La-Grange Female Institute together. She was a Tomlinson from LaGrange and her mother was—let me see. ... Perkins？ Parkins？ Parkinson！ That’s it. From Sparta. A very good family but just the same—well， I know I shouldn’t say it but I don’t see how Fanny can bring herself to marry him！”
“Does he drink or—”