The summer before they had bought a lot in Lynn, Massachusetts. They had planned the house together; and in the fall—between trips and with the help of several friends—Douglass had built a cottage.
Anna hated to leave New Bedford—“a city of friends,” she called it.
“But you see,” she explained to them ruefully, “the Douglass family has simply rent the seams of this little house. We have to have more room.”
They had chosen Lynn because it was more on the path for Frederick’s work and because the town had a thriving Anti-Slavery Society. Came the day when they moved into their cottage. Anna washed windows and woodwork, and Lewis followed his father around, “chunking up all the holes” so that when the cold weather came they would be snug and warm.
The highway was good and the May day pleasant as the Reverend Wendell Phillips drove Douglass’ family back to their home.
“How long do you think he’ll have to stay away, Mr. Phillips?”
They were nearly there, before Anna dared ask the question she had been avoiding.
Wendell Phillips flicked his whip. It was a moment before he answered.
“It’s impossible to say, Mrs. Douglass. We’re certain he’ll render valuable service to the cause of freedom among peoples who do not know the real horrors of American slavery. Meanwhile, we’ll do what we can to see that his own return may be safe.”