Here the June evening was lovely. They passed a fine old house beside which a spreading magnolia tree, all in bloom, spilt its fragrance out into the street. In gardens behind wrought-iron handrails children were quietly playing. Young dandies passed along the sidewalks, parading before demure young misses. On white stoop or behind green lattice, the young ladies barely raised their eyes from their needlework. Negro servants moved to and fro, wearing bright red bandanas and carrying market baskets tilted easily on their heads. They passed a gray cathedral and came to a small brick house with white marble steps and white-arched vestibule. Frederick’s heart turned over. The house had been freshly painted, the yard trimmed and cut. The place with its lace curtains had an air of affluence which Frederick did not recall; but this had been the nearest thing to a home that he had ever known, and he felt affection for it. Was Tommy at home? After the master had descended, they drove around back. There was the cellar door down which he and Tommy had slid; the gnarled tree was gone. He wondered what Tommy had done with the notebooks they had hid inside the trunk--those notebooks in which Frederick had so painfully traced his young master’s letters. As they climbed down from the rig Frederick, trying to keep the urgency from his voice, turned to the boy. “Is Master--Master Tommy at home?” The black boy stared at him a moment without answering. Then he asked, “Young Massa?” And at Frederick’s nod, “Yes--Massa Thomas, he hyear.” So it was “Master Thomas” now. Frederick checked his sigh as he smiled at this boy of his own color. “My name’s Fred. What’s yours?” he said cordially. “I Jeb.” The boy answered immediately, but there was a puzzled look on his face. They were unhitching the horse now. He cleared his throat and burst out, “Say, yo’--Yo’ talks lak white folks. Huccome?” Frederick hesitated. Should he tell him about the notebooks and reading lessons--that he and the Young Master had learned together? He decided not. So he only laughed and said, “Fiddlesticks!” Jeb studied the newcomer covertly as they went inside. He liked this Fred--liked the way he looked at you--liked the way he walked; but Jeb recognized that here was something to think about. The ugly, gaunt woman at the stove turned when they entered the kitchen. She did not smile, and Frederick felt her dark eyes, set deep in bony sockets, take him in from head to foot. Then she motioned them to places at the scrubbed pine board. They sat down on stools. “Hit’s Nada.” Jeb leaned forward and whispered. “She free! She free ’oman!” Now it was Frederick’s turn to stare at the big woman. She moved slowly, clumsily, as if the springs of her body were giving way. The deep ridges of her face were pitted with smallpox, the scars extending from her eyes to the wide sad space of her mouth. But she was free, and Frederick looked at her with envy.