He turned in the buggy seat and looked at her. And in that moment he was no longer the great Frederick Douglass--he was the slender, eager boy, just escaped from slavery, leaning on the rail of the boat, devouring with his young eyes every detail of their wonderful free home. The big white house far up on the hill had caught their eyes. “_Look! Some day we’ll have a house like that! Look, Anna!_” So now, when he asked, “Do you remember?” she only nodded her head. The smart little buggy was rolling along on land once more. “Now we’re in Anacostia,” he said. “Close your eyes and keep them closed till I say!” She heard him chuckle like a boy, and then he said, “Now--Look!” He pointed with his whip. It was the big white house high on a hill! “There’s our house, Anna, the house I promised you!” She could only stare. Then the meaning of his words made her gasp. “Frederick! You don’t really mean--You haven’t--?” He laughed as she had not heard him laugh in a long time. They were winding up the hill now--toward the house. That afternoon they planned and dreamed. The owners had let the house run down, but it would be perfect. “We’ll try to have it ready in time to escape the August heat. This is why I’ve been deaf to your talk about a vacation.” The afternoon almost exhausted Anna. “Mamma’s all fagged out,” Rosetta told her father the next day. June was very hot, and Douglass began to worry about his wife. “Perhaps you’d better go away for a few days.” She shook her head. “The house will be ready soon. When we get on our hill--” Her eyes were happy with anticipation. When the doctor ordered her to bed, she was planning the moving. “I’ll just take it easy for a few days--then we’ll start packing,” she said. Anna Murray Douglass died on August 4th, 1882. CHAPTER NINETEEN _Indian summer and a fair harvest_ They moved him out to the house in November. “It must be settled before winter,” Rosetta said, and his sons agreed. “Pipes will freeze up unless someone is in the house.” So they packed the furniture--the piano--his books. It was a twelve-room house. They looked at each other in dismay. What were his plans? What to put in all those rooms? “Buy what is needed.” His voice was tired. He went into his room, closing the door softly behind him. Meanwhile, Robert Ingersoll had moved to Washington. In spite of the many demands of his meteoric career he sought out Douglass, invited him to his home, sent him books. “She was so happy, Douglass.” Ingersoll laid his hand on the older man’s arm. “Think of that. I wish--” He stopped and for a moment a shadow crossed his face. He was thinking of his brother. Then he said softly, “Blessed is the man who knows that through his own living he has brought some happiness into life.”