A/N: Sorry for the delay—we were hit by snow and had to postpone our Christmas plans and just got home. Here are the last 2 chapters, and Merry Christmas to all!

He was clawing at something. A shroud? It wrapped itself around and around him, muffling him, strangling him. Oh, God—to be dead and buried when his heart still beat in his chest!

It was the bedsheet. He was in his own bed, at the hotel. The long night was over. Outside his window the first faint flushes of dawn were touching the eastern sky.

Rhett launched himself from the bed and ran to the window.

He threw up the sash. The snow that had fallen in the night was new and white and clean. A negro boy in a cart was rumbling down the street.

"You, there!" Rhett called to the boy. "What day is this?"

The boy tilted back his cap and looked up at Rhett in surprise. Far away there were bells clamoring on the wind from a distant steeple.

"What day's today?" the boy said, incredulously. "Why, suh—today—it's Christmas."

He dressed himself with trembling hands. He did not care how his hair looked, or if his cravat was neatly straightened. He smoothed his hair with his hands as he flew down the stairs, to the hotel lobby.

"Good morning, Mr. Butler," said the clerk officiously. Normally Rhett would have whirled on him, and said something cutting, but today he could not do it. Not today—not today!

"Merry Christmas, my boy!" he cried, and tossed a gold coin to the thin hands. It felt so good, he tossed another.

"That couple that had my room last night when I came in," he remembered. "The honeymooners. Where did you put them?"

The clerk pulled a face but said, "They're well-put up, sir. They were happy to take the accommodation we offered them in the servants' quarters."

"Put them back in their proper place," Rhett said. "And move my things to the servant's quarters—I'll come and collect them later. And for God's sake, offer them a free breakfast, and lunch, and dinner, and whatever else they want for their troubles. Put it on my account."

The clerk looked alarmed. "But whom should I say is paying for all of it? They do not know you, sir."

Rhett grinned. "Tell them it's Santa Claus."

Out on the street he breathed deeply of the sharp, fresh air. He had forgotten his coat but he did not feel the cold. The sun was shining brightly, and across the street was Rene Picard, driving his mother-in-law's pie wagon on morning rounds. Rhett remembered once that Rene had said the holidays were a busy time for the pie industry. He had pitied the man, then, but now he was only glad to see the Zouave's little monkey-like face. Not so monkey-like. Rhett had never liked him, especially, but now he thought that there was something brave in Rene Picard, something noble, even, and he admired him. Yes, admired him!

"Merry Christmas, Rene!" Rhett called, raising a hand in greeting.

The Zouave was so stunned that he dropped his reins.

"Merry—Christmas—Rhett," he was finally able to murmur back. He completed his rounds that morning and went back to breakfast to tell his family that he had seen Rhett Butler, completely drunk, on the street. "But by God," Rene would tell them, "If that's how he's going to act, drunk, I'll buy the round myself! Such a change in him! Such—humanity."

A little farther on, Rhett passed Dr. and Mrs. Meade, coming home from the early service at the church. Mrs. Meade was prepared to be snubbed, after her interaction with Butler the day before. So she nearly lost her footing on the icy sidewalk as Rhett tipped his hat to her, and had to clutch her husband's arm when he stopped to wish them a happy Yule with a smile that split his dark face in genuine good humor.

"I'm glad I caught you," said Rhett, seriously, to Mrs. Meade, taking her hand in earnestness, "Because I've been thinking I'd like to make a donation to the Fund for the Widows and Orphans. That graveyard is a nasty place—there's no cheer about it, at all. If we could set out an allee of trees, a little bench, a water feature and clear away the weeds, it wouldn't be half so forbidding as it is. I'd like to pay for it all. In fact, I'll write you a check right now." He pulled his billfold from his pocket and did just that thing, adding so many zeroes on the sum to be paid that both Meades felt a little faint.

"When were you at the graveyard?" Mrs. Meade asked, through disbelieving lips, for it was well-known Butler never went there.

"Oh, last night late," Rhett said cheerfully, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be out at a graveyard at midnight on Christmas Eve. "Grimmest place I've ever been. Merry Christmas, you folks! You will stop by the house on Peachtree street later, if you get a chance, won't you? Scarlett and I will be at home to our friends all evening."

Now even Dr. Meade's jaw hung down. Here was Rhett Butler, freely offering to give away his hard-earned money, talking of the wife he had abandoned a year ago as though he had not abandoned her, and calling these people he had made no bones about detesting his friends. As they hurried away from Butler, who was calling over his shoulder good wishes to them, Dr. Meade said, in a low voice to his wife,

"Don't look at him—he's playing a game with us—or else dead drunk."

"Dead drunk!" his wife exclaimed. "Oh, Dr. Meade, he's had a stroke or apoplexy of some kind. I wonder at you for not noticing. The poor man—it's plain as day. We should go and help him."

"I never heard of a stroke making somebody nice," Dr. Meade said doubtfully.

"Well, I never heard of liquor making Rhett Butler nice," retorted his wife. "Oh! I wonder if he mean what he said about the cemetery. Dr. Meade, we're going right down to Henry Hamilton this minute and getting him to cash the check before Butler comes to his senses and changes his mind. I don't care if it is Christmas—we're going!"

Rhett was not there to overhear this conversation. He had sprinted down the street toward a row of shops. They were not open, and he felt a little pang of sorrow for pounding on the door, waking the owners. But he had to get presents—he must—and he would compensate them for their troubles.

In the Toy Emporium he picked presents for the children. A beautiful carved rocking horse for Ella—she had always wanted a pony when Bonnie had had one, but Rhett had never troubled himself over Scarlett's child. But how sweet Ella had been over Bonnie having one—not jealous at all. Full of congratulatory spirit. She was a good child—he would get her a pony in the new year, teach her to ride, but carefully. For Wade he chose a small set of target pistols. He would take the boy to Tara, in the spring, show him how to shoot—Tara! Why, he'd get some little geegaws for Sister Sue's brood, and have them sent. And something for Beau Wilkes—the toy store was not the place—but in the bookstore, adjacent, he found a set of Gibbon's Decline and Fall, in handsome crimson leather. Rhett bought all twelve volumes, and then his head was turned by a set of Macaulay's History of England. He snapped it up, too—he remembered once, years ago, Ashley Wilkes saying that he had read it and enjoyed it, and had it lost when Twelve Oaks burned in the war.

For Scarlett, Rhett could not fathom what to get. There was a jewelry store next to the book store, and the jeweler opened up and showed him row after row of gleaming baubles. But none of them seemed the thing. He had always placated Scarlett with gems before, and he did not want to do it now. He wanted something to show her how he felt, truly. He ground his teeth in frustration. There was nothing here. Only a few pretty bolts of silk, in the corner, some kid gloves and a selection of hats…

Hats! In the middle there was a green silk hat. It was not the same as the French bonnet he had gotten her during the war—it was a fanchon-style, and the color was more of a spring green than an emerald. But there were ostrich feathers curling about the brim, and wide silk ribbons to tie under the chin. It was somewhat cheaply made, nothing compared to the Paris hat that Rhett had given her, once, but he bought this hat not for Scarlett's true delight in it, but as a sign, as a gesture. He was going back with her to the beginning of their time together. He was going to do everything right, this time.

The clerk boxed things up, and Rhett gave him double what it cost, to compensate for the trouble of opening on Christmas. Then, remembering something, he asked the clerk to hand him some bolts of warm fabric. "I'll take it now," he said. "Have the rest sent to this address on Peachtree street."

Where were they? He thought, as he retraced his steps from last night. Where had he seen the woman with the small child? He stopped for a cup of coffee at a restaurant, and had the waiter box up some food. He went back out into the glittering cold. What a strange sight he must look, carrying a box on top of a bolt of fabric, asking passers-by if they had happened to see, or know of, a young woman with a baby looking for accommodation. Nobody had seen her and Rhett followed his steps back to the doorway in which they had been huddled the night before. But surely they couldn't still be there? Surely someone must have taken them in?

They were there, mother and child, still wrapped up against the night's freeze in a ragged blanket. The woman sat up when she saw Rhett, and tears glinted in her eyes. He remembered with shame that last night he had suggested she was a prostitute. Shame filled his heart as he sat down on the wet stoop next to her.

"Don't be afraid," he said. "And I'm so sorry for what I said. The devil was in me, for a minute—but he's gone now. I've brought you some food, and some warm cloth, to make little things for the kid. Eat—eat. You must be frozen through. What is your name?"

"Hannah," said the girl, between bites.

"Hannah what?"

"Hannah DuPre."

But the DuPres were one of the best families in town—they ran the bank, were friends of Meades and Merriweathers! And this girl had said her mother had thrown her out. Why, he had met Frank DuPre's little girl once, years ago—this girl, now, homeless and with a small child. He remembered some scandal about her eloping with an entirely unsuitable man—a servant or groom of some sort—well. Even if she had been the daughter of one of Belle Watling's girls he would not let her stay here. Not on Christmas!

But where could he take her? The hotel was full up. If only he had a friend in Atlanta—or a home, a real home—somebody, some place, to turn to!

Rhett hailed a hansom cab and helped Hannah and the baby in.

"Peachtree street," he told the driver.

"Captain—Butler!" said Ashley Wilkes, in astonishment, as he pulled open the door of the shabby house that Melanie Wilkes had loved so much. Rhett felt he could see her there, still. It was the thought of Melanie, her sweet face that seemed so close to him, that had made him turn to Ashley, to bring Hannah here. Melanie would have wanted it—Melanie would have welcome it. But Ashley only looked surprised as Rhett explained the situation.

"This is Hannah DuPre—yes, of those DuPres—and her little baby. They need a warm place to be for a while, a bath, some food—and some clothes, if you can scare them up."

Ashley's mouth worked. "Butler—but—is—is that your child?"

Rhett grinned, and laughed outright. "Not on your life! Wilkes, I'm a blackguard, and but I like them with a bit more meat on their bones, and a little older than Ella. Though she's damned pretty, I'll admit."

"Yes, 'damned' pretty," echoed Ashley absently, darting a look over at the girl sitting stiffly on the faded settee. She flashed him a shy, self-conscious smile. Rhett saw Wilkes's resolve melt at once.

"She can stay as long as she likes, though I'll have to get Aunt Pitty to come over—as chaperon, you know. Butler, what I can't understand is, if that's not your child, why you care? Why you're doing this? It's—it's right decent of you."

Rhett saw the admiration in Ashley Wilkes' face, and for the second time that day, he felt ashamed. He had always ridiculed Ashley for being so proper, such a gentleman, and he had told himself that he did not want to be so meek, and docile, as that. But now he saw that meek and docile were not the words: kind, and generous, was what he had meant. And he had pretended not to be a gentleman not because he did not want to be one—but because he had not thought he would be able to live up to the code.

"I haven't always done the decent thing," Rhett admitted. "But I'd like to start now, Wilkes—if you'll forgive me for the things I've done."

Ashley smiled ruefully. "I wonder if you would want my forgiveness if you knew…well…if you knew what I was planning for tonight."

"That you plan on asking Scarlett to marry you?"

Ashley looked shocked. "How did you know?"

"It doesn't matter. Ask her if you like. I'm through with trying to make her unhappy. I love her—I'm going to ask her to have me back—but if she won't I'll go gently."

"She will have you back," Ashley promised him. "She loves you more than she ever thought she loved—" his good manners would not let him say baldly what he meant. "Well, more than she ever thought she loved anybody else."

Rhett grinned. He gave Ashley a roll of bills and told him to send for anything Miss DuPre or the little one might need. And then he went back out into the cold Christmas morning, looking wistfully at the monstrous house where even now, Scarlett must be waking up. But it was not time, yet. There was more he must do before he could go to her.