“If I show you sometimes how to look up and find the light, as you showed me the Sunrise beacon on the night of the storm out on West Bluff, you may be glad you heard me. See that glow on the dome! You would have missed that down in Lagonda Ledge.”
A level ray from a momentary cloudrift in the western sky smote the stained glass of the dome, lighting its gleaming inscription with a fleeting radiance.
“But the light comes rarely and is so far away, and between times, only the cave, and the dark ways behind it leading to the river,” he said gravely. The sorrow of hopelessness was his tone.
“Not unless one chooses to burrow downward,” she replied softly. “Let's hurry home. Tomorrow you will be 'Victor the Famous' again. I hope this shower won't spoil the ball game.”
As night deepened, the rain fell steadily. Up in Victor Burleigh's room Bug Buler grew drowsy early.
“I want to say my pwayers now, Vic,” he said.
The big fellow put down his book and took the child in his arms. Bug had a genius for praying briefly and for others rather than for himself. Tonight he merely clasped his chubby hands and said, reverently:
“Dear Dod, please ist make Vic dood as folks finks he is, for Thwist's sake. Amen-n-n.”
When he fell asleep, Victor sat a long while staring at the window where the May rain was beating heavily. At length, he bent over little Bug and pushed back the curls from his brow. Bug smiled up drowsily and went on sleeping.
“As good as folks think I am, Bug!” he mused. “You have gotten between me and the rattlesnakes that were after my soul a good many times, little brother-of-mine. As good as folks think I am! Do you know what it costs to be that good?”