Uncle Peabody danced around the table and sang a stanza of the old ballad, which I have forgotten, but which begins:
Come, Philander, let us be a-marchin'.
How well I remember that hour with the doors open and the sun shining brightly on the blossoming fields and the joy of man and bird and beast in the return of summer and the talk about the late visit of Alma Jones and Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln!
While we were eating I told them about the letter of old Kate.
"Fullerton!" Aunt Deel exclaimed. "Are ye sure that was the name, Bart?"
"Yes."
"Goodness gracious sakes alive!"
She and Uncle Peabody gave each other looks of surprised inquiry.
"Do you know anybody by that name?" I asked.
"We used to," said Aunt Deel as she resumed her eating. "Can't be she's one o' the Sam Fullertons, can it?"