The drag in his breathing which was always a forerunner of a coughing-spell warned him now; he put on coat and shoes and went outside, where his cough attacked him, had its sway, and left him.
“Good-morning,” sang out August Naab's cheery voice. “Sixteen hours of sleep, my lad!”
“I did sleep, didn't I? No wonder I feel well this morning. A peculiarity of my illness is that one day I'm down, the next day up.”
“With the goodness of God, my lad, we'll gradually increase the days up. Go in to breakfast. Afterward I want to talk to you. This'll be a busy day for me, shoeing the horses and packing supplies. I want to start for home to-morrow.”
Hare pondered over Naab's words while he ate. The suggestion in them, implying a relation to his future, made him wonder if the good Mormon intended to take him to his desert home. He hoped so, and warmed anew to this friend. But he had no enthusiasm for himself; his future seemed hopeless.
Naab was waiting for him on the porch, and drew him away from the cottage down the path toward the gate.
“I want you to go home with me.”
“You're kind—I'm only a sort of beggar—I've no strength left to work my way. I'll go—though it's only to die.”
“I haven't the gift of revelation—yet somehow I see that you won't die of this illness. You will come home with me. It's a beautiful place, my Navajo oasis. The Indians call it the Garden of Eschtah. If you can get well anywhere it'll be there.”
“I'll go but I ought not. What can I do for you?”