“ Oh, I had a letter from Tara today. The Yankees are close to home and my little sister is ill with typhoid and — and — so now, even if I could go home, like I want to, Mother wouldn’t let me for fear I’d catch it too. Oh, dear, and I do so want to go home!”
“ Well, don’t cry about it,” he said, but his voice was kinder. “You are much safer here in Atlanta even if the Yankees do come than you’d be at Tara. The Yankees won’t hurt you and typhoid would.”
“ The Yankees wouldn’t hurt me! How can you say such a lie?”
“ My dear girl, the Yankees aren’t fiends. They haven’t horns and hoofs, as you seem to think. They are pretty much like Southerners — except with worse manners, of course, and terrible accents.”
“ Why, the Yankees would —”
“ r**e you? I think not. Though, of course, th
