Scarlett stood with her hand on the horse’s bridle, a dull feeling at her heart.
“ Now,” said Grandma, peering into her face, “what’s wrong at Tara? What are you keeping back?”
Scarlett looked up into the keen old eyes and knew she could tell the truth, without tears. No one could cry in the presence of Grandma Fontaine without her express permission.
“ Mother is dead,” she said flatly.
The hand on her arm tightened until it pinched and the wrinkled lids over the yellow eyes blinked.
“ Did the Yankees kill her?”
“ She died of typhoid. Died — the day before I came home.”
“ Don’t think about it,” said Grandma sternly and Scarlett saw her swallow. “And your Pa?”
“ Pa is — Pa is not himself.”
“ What do you mean? Speak up. Is he ill?”
“ The shock — he is so strange — he is not
