“Still the same lovely manners!” she said. At this the tall man at her elbow spoke. “Mr. Douglass, you will pardon us. I am Jack Haley, and this is Mrs. Amelia Kemp.” “Don’t you remember me--Frederick?” She smiled wistfully as she said his name, and the years dissolved. He remembered the dahlias. “Miss Amelia!” He took her hand, and his somber face lit up with delight. “Could you come with us? Have you a little time?” Her words were bubbling over. Douglass turned to Garrison, who was regarding the scene with some misgiving. They two were far from safe in Washington. “I think we’d better leave at once,” he said with a frown. Douglass’ face showed his disappointment. He said, and it was clear he meant it, “I’m terribly sorry, Miss Amelia.” Jack Haley turned to Garrison. His voice was low. “I understand the situation, sir. But if I drove you directly to our house, I assure you we shall encounter no difficulties. We would be honored.” Once more Douglass looked hopefully at Garrison. The older man shrugged his shoulders. The fringed-top carryall stood at the curb. Garrison helped Amelia into the back seat and sat down beside her. Douglass climbed into the front seat with Jack. As Jack picked up the reins, Douglass grinned and said, “I could drive, you know.” Jack gave a short laugh. “I realize, Mr. Douglass, that we’re uncivilized down here. But stranger things than this are seen on Pennsylvania Avenue. Relax, we’ll get home all right.” So they drove down the avenue past soldiers and visitors and legislators, all intent upon their own affairs. Louisiana Avenue with its wide greensward and early violets was loveliest of all. For two days in the short period before the guns opened fire at Fort Sumter, Frederick Douglass and William Lloyd Garrison rested from their labors on a shaded side-street off Louisiana Avenue. Up North the countryside was still locked in the hard rigors of winter, but here spring was in the air. He walked out in the yard, and told Miss Amelia about his big sons who kept the paper going during his many absences. Succulent odors rose like incense from Amelia’s kitchen--Maryland fried chicken, served with snowy mounds of rice, popovers and cherry pie--their fragrance hung in the air and brought her lodgers tumbling down from their rooms to inquire, “What’s going on here?” Amelia told them about her guests, swearing them to secrecy. They tiptoed out into the hall and peeped into the living room. On the second evening Miss Amelia gave in to their urgent requests. “A few of my young friends to meet you, Frederick. You won’t mind?” After supper they gathered round. Far into the night they asked questions and talked together, the ex-slave and young Americans who sorted mail, ran errands and wrote the letters of the legislators on Capitol Hill.