Perhaps it was because she was going to have a baby.
Women did look like the devil at such times.
And, of course, she must be feeling badly about old man O'Hara.
She had been his pet.
But, no, the change was deeper than that.
She really looked as if she had three square meals a day.
And the hunted-animal look had partly gone from her eyes.
Now, the eyes which had been fearful and desperate were hard.
There was an air of command, assurance and determination about her, even when she smiled.
Bet she led old Frank a merry life!
Yes, she had changed.
She was a handsome woman, to be sure, but all that pretty, sweet softness had gone from her face and that flattering way of looking up at a man, like he knew more than God Almighty, had utterly vanished.
Well, hadn't they all changed?
Alex looked down at his rough clothes and his face fell into its usual bitter lines.
Sometimes at night when he lay awake, wondering how his mother was going to get that operation and how poor dead Joe's little boy was going to get an education and how he was going to get money for another mule, he wished the war was still going on, wished it had gone on forever.
They didn't know their luck then.
There was always something to eat in the army, even if it was just corn bread, always somebody to give orders and none of this torturing sense of facing problems that couldn't be solved--nothing to bother about in the army except getting killed.
And then there was Dimity Munroe.
Alex wanted to marry her and he knew he couldn't when so many were already looking to him for support.
He had loved her for so long and now the roses were fading from her cheeks and the joy from her eyes.
If only Tony hadn't had to run away to Texas. Another man on the place would make all the difference in the world.
His lovable bad-tempered little brother, penniless somewhere in the West.
Yes, they had all changed.
And why not?
He sighed heavily.
"I haven't thanked you for what you and Frank did for Tony," he said.
"It was you who helped him get away, wasn't it?
It was fine of you.
I heard in a roundabout way that he was safe in Texas.
I was afraid to write and ask you--but did you or Frank lend him any money?
I want to repay--"
"Oh, Alex, please hush!
Not now!" cried Scarlett.
For once, money meant nothing to her.
Alex was silent for a moment.
"I'll get Will for you," he said, "and we'll all be over tomorrow for the funeral."
As he picked up the sack of oats and turned away, a wobbly-wheeled wagon swayed out of a side street and creaked up to them.
Will called from the seat:
"I'm sorry I'm late, Scarlett."
Climbing awkwardly down from the wagon, he stumped toward her and, bending, kissed her cheek.
Will had never kissed her before, had never failed to precede her name with "Miss" and, while it surprised her, it warmed her heart and pleased her very much.
He lifted her carefully over the wheel and into the wagon and, looking down, she saw that it was the same old rickety wagon in which she had fled from Atlanta.
How had it ever held together so long?
Will must have kept it patched up very well.
It made her slightly sick to look at it and to remember that night.
If it took the shoes off her feet or food from Aunt Pitty's table, she'd see that there was a new wagon at Tara and this one burned.
Will did not speak at first and Scarlett was grateful.
He threw his battered straw hat into the back of the wagon, clucked to the horse and they moved off.
Will was just the same, lank and gangling, pink of hair, mild of eye, patient as a draft animal.
They left the village behind and turned into the red road to Tara.