I am ashamed to go home without a song. I'll sing. I'll sing so that
everyone shall think he loaded us with good things like the rest."

"Well, sing if you like; but you'll sing by yourself."

So the peasant, the poor brother, started singing a song with his dry
throat. He lifted his voice and sang like the rest, while his wife
trudged silently beside him.

But as he sang it seemed to the peasant that he heard two voices
singing--his own and another's. He stopped, and asked his wife,--

"Is that you joining in my song with a little thin voice?"

"What's the matter with you? I never thought of singing with you. I
never opened my mouth."

"Who is it then?"

"No one except yourself. Any one would say you had had a drink of wine
after all."

"But I heard some one ... a little weak voice ... a little sad
voice ... joining with mine."

"I heard nothing," said his wife; "but sing again, and I'll listen."

The poor man sang again. He sang alone. His wife listened, and it was
clear that there were two voices singing--the dry voice of the poor
man, and a little miserable voice that came from the shadows under the