That which they had vowed to each other after the death of
Mohammed's mother, they had kept-true and firm friendship, brotherly
and confidential intercourse. With one wish only of young Osman, had
Mohammed not complied: he had not gone to live with him in the
proud, governmental building-had refused to share his friend's
luxury and magnificence, and to allow his poverty to be put to shame
by the benefits which he would have been compelled to accept.
The hut, inherited from his parents, he retained as his own
dwelling. In it nothing had been changed; the mat on which his
mother had died was now his bed. In the pitcher out of which she had
drunk, he each morning brought fresh water from the spring, and all
the articles she had used, poor and miserable as they were, now
constituted the furniture of his hut.
In vain had Osman continually renewed his entreaties: "Come to me.
Live with me; not for your own sake, Mohammed. I know that you
despise luxury, and that the splendor that surrounds us is offensive
to you. Not for your own, but for my sake, Mohammed, come to me and
live with us. My father is so anxious to have you do so, for he
knows that your presence is the best medicine for me. I feel so well
and strong when I look at you, Mohammed; and, when you sometimes
yield to my entreaties and spend the night with me in my room, it
seems to me I sleep better, for I know that my friend is watching
over me.
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