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Updated: June 5, 2025
Under her little blue dusting cap, the sunny ripples of her hair framed a face glowing with health. She smiled up at him comfortably a smile that played about the edges of his consciousness all that day. "I've never been sick," she said. "It 's a good thing, too, for our house is a regular hospital this week. Little Bug Buler is the worst of all. He took cold on the night of the storm.
"Begad," said Buler, with a keen sense of humor, "it looks to me as if I'd better be gettin' in my one hundred thousand dollars. That's the first business of the early mornin'." Neither Simpson nor Mollenhauer condescended on this occasion to smile even the wan smile they had smiled before. They merely looked wise and solemn.
Little Bug Buler, now four years of age, had changed least of all among changing things about Lagonda Ledge. A sweet-faced, quaint little fellow he was, with big appealing eyes, a baby lisp to his words, and innocent ways. He was a sturdy, pudgy, self-reliant youngster, however, who took long rambles alone and turned up safe at the right moment.
Suddenly a faint piping voice floated in upon the glen: Little childwen pwessing near To the feet of Thwist, the Ting, Have you neiver doubt nor fear Or some twibute do you bwing? And Bug Buler, flushed and splashed, and generally muddy and happy, came around the fallen ledges and debauched into the grassy sunshiny space before the cavern.
Behind the fine scholarly face a storm was raging and there was only one friend whom he could trust Dennie. "Let's go walking, you and me!" Bug Buler put up one hand to Burgess, while he clutched a little red ball in the other. Bug had an irresistible child voice and child touch, and Burgess yielded to their leading.
He was about two years old then and all he could say was 'bad man' and his name, 'Bug Buler. I've wondered if Bug is his name, or if he could not speak his real name plainly then." Burleigh paused, and a sense of Elinor's interest brought a thrill of joy to him. "Where was he?" she asked. Vic slowly unfastened his cuff and slipped his coat sleeve up to his elbow.
But" the brown eyes were a blazing fire "nobody can tell me that any man must rescue a girl from me to save her reputation, nor that any dishonor belongs to me because of little Bug Buler. Uncultured, as I am, I have the culture of a courage that guards the helpless; and ill-bred, as I may be, I have a gentleman's honor wherever a woman's need calls for my protection."
The two eyes no other human token visible just two cruel human eyes full of human hate were fixed on him. And the fascination of the thing was paralyzing, horrible. He could not move nor utter a sound. Bug Buler woke with a little cry. The bushes by the riverside just rippled one quiver of motion and the eyes were not there.
I have funds in trust for Bug Buler, and I come to ask you to take his legal guardianship for me." And then he told his own life story. "So the heroism shifts to you as well. I can picture the cost to a man like yourself," the Dean said. "Have you no record of Bug's father and mother?" "None but the record given by Dr. Wream. They are dead," Burleigh replied.
But the joy of this night, crowning all other joys in the Walnut Valley, was in that sacred moment when Bug Buler walked slowly up to Marian Burleigh, sister to Vincent Burgess, lost love of Lloyd Fenneben's youth slowly, and with big brown eyes glowing with a strange new love light, and, putting up both his chubby hands to her cheeks, he murmured softly: "Is you my own mother?
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