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?

"No man can ever tell what he may do for another. The time may come--
well, John, is it settled?" He offered his huge broad hand.

"It's settled--I--" Hare faltered as he put his hand in Naab's. The
Mormon's grip straightened his frame and braced him. Strength and
simplicity flowed from the giant's toil-hardened palm. Hare swallowed
his thanks along with his emotion, and for what he had intended to say he
substituted: "No one ever called me John. I don't know the name. Call
me Jack."