Scarlett had spent several mealtimes, and with prayer led by Aunt Pittypat, and on the boards of several conditioned by Mrs Meade and the like, to understand a little of life here, routine that was not sitting idle, and though it were not as though the hospitals were bustling with gruesome sights, Scarlett enjoyed how in some parlours she could sit with the ladies around her, gossiping and the like, and having only her sewing for company, and not need to contribute.

The older ladies, having had husbands and children and all their youth to reflect on, needed little inclination to ask Scarlett's opinion on anything. Yet for their interest in when she might marry, was brought up at once and Scarlett, modestly declining any entreaty that the old ladies were likely to tear into like chicken claws, and told them that there were no beaus on the horizon, "alas".

At once, they decided, some letters would be written to Ellen, representing in the strongest manner on part of these old ladies, to consider some suitors or at some ball or remarking on some young man who they considered fitting. Scarlett, who when jovial when her face lit up, was otherwise not beautiful, and if this was an impasse, it had been her proud straight back which took others to understand that she considered herself mightier than thou.

"But I am," Scarlett considered, when the old ladies had gone back to their tattling, "I could not imagine - if I considered myself subservient to another. Of course, Melanie and Ellen I can be - but then they do not laugh at me, they do not tell tales, they do not tease me. I can relax with them - and with Aunt Pittypat, though she is silly and I do not look up to her, I can trust her. But it is others. I could not be myself around everyone else. I cannot fathom how other people can be themselves all the time - there are simply people you must put up the strongest defence against, and these are not only the people with bad manners or not received in the County."

Such ire burned in Scarlett's heart, determined that others should not see her weakness unless they themselves were weaker than her or always showed their vulnerability - like Ellen, like Melanie, like Pittypat. She yearned for a time when she could believe all who succored those women, could be the same people she trusted on.

"But I would be silly," muttered Scarlett, not aware she was now not speaking only in her mind, and Mrs Merriweather arched her eyebrow and bent to her neighbor, "Nobody can be trusted, truly. Nobody really wants to know - I would have to be locked in a house all the time with Ellen and Melanie and Pittypat. And Pittypat is wrung about the head by her brother and Uncle Peter! To think, I was once as sensitive as she is, as much as in need of a fainting couch as her. And life taught me to be as unbending as a birch branch, and for some reason, others sense that in me and keep their distance. Well! I will not be a miserable crying wretch hanging onto the arm of someone else, not if- "

Melanie, in a rustle of skirts, came to Scarlett's side, and if it had been anyone else, Scarlett would have been angry, but meeting the glare of the others, only made her scowl.

"Scarlett, dear, we were hoping you might read," Melanie proffered a book, "Your voice is much clearer than mine - I fear I might not finish the first chapter without needing a glass of strong milk."

This praise did not affect Scarlett; any praise affected Scarlett, but when Melanie spoke, Scarlett felt antagonised; she was vastly aware of her own shortcomings, and to Melanie, how could Scarlett correctly reply?

"Thank you," Scarlett said the words, did not mean them, for she knew not how to accept praise she felt was unmerited, "I will read. Please excuse me."

Melanie nodded, rose, picked up her sewing at her own chair, and Scarlett fingered the first page of the book and shakily, at attention from the others until she could command the room, began.

"This is foolish," thought Scarlett, who in reading, could at least command her own reverie, "These old women think I'm ridiculous. Only Melly, at least, commands their respect. How can I be Melanie, learn from her? Surely - if I had been truly raised like Ellen, I would be just like her - but then Scarlett is different, but not different from me. Scarlett and I are alike in vigor and strength. But I do not find allies in my strength. I find only compunction, for I - I vastly believe the ends are worth the means. And my struggles are not of the war's doing. Mine are lame like a horse, and perhaps insignificant."

Scarlett, reading to the end of her chapter, her voice wavering and broke, and as was custom, she rubbed her temple which by now had filled with pressure, and Melanie was at her side.

"Scarlett, that was wonderful," Melanie stood in front of the ladies, her smile constant, rubbing Scarlett's back with a soothing pleasantness, "You must try some hot milk. It will recover your spirit - you spoke for so long."

Scarlett rose, glad of the appreciative comfort, and the diversion which Melly helped her to resolve, despite the old ladies' eyes following them all the while. Satisfied, Scarlett looked out the window to the yard where more chickens still were plentiful, and looked at Melly, who looked at peace as though she were timeless, and would never fade.

"What is your secret?" Scarlett thought, as Melanie took her arm and led her back into the room, where Mrs Meade began a recital of her son's many redeeming features, "You must have a secret. Nobody spends an entire day without aiming for something. I could not imagine a life without fighting - if ever I felt at peace, I should find another reason to doubt it, and could quite happily continue in a fog of my own misunderstanding."