They wished a long life to the rich brother, and the poor brother wanted to make a speech, congratulating him on his name-day.  But the rich brother scarcely thanked him, because he was so busy entertaining the rich merchants and their plump, laughing wives.  He was pressing food on his guests, now this, now that, and calling to the servants to keep their glasses filled and their plates full of all the tastiest kinds of food.  As for the poor brother and his wife, the rich one forgot all about them, and they got nothing to eat and never a drop to drink.  They just sat there with empty plates and empty glasses, watching how the others ate and drank.  The poor brother laughed with the rest, because he did not wish to show that he had been forgotten.

The dinner came to an end.  One by one the guests went up to the giver of the feast to thank him for his good cheer.  And the poor brother too got up from the bench, and bowed low before his brother and thanked him.

The guests went home, drunken and joyful.  A fine noise they made, as people do on these occasions, shouting jokes to each other and singing songs at the top of their voices.

The poor brother and his wife went home empty and sad.  All that long way they had walked, and now they had to walk it again, and the feast was over, and never a bite had they had in their mouths, nor a drop in their gullets.

“Come, wife,” says the poor brother as he trudged along, “let us sing a song like the others.”

“What a fool you are!” says his wife.  Hungry and cross she was, as even Maroosia would be after a day like that watching other people stuff themselves.  “What a fool you are!” says she.  “People may very well sing when they have eaten tasty dishes and drunk good wine.  But what reason have you got for making a merry noise in the night?”

“Why, my dear” says he, “we have been at my brother’s name-day feast.  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 trees.  The poor man stopped, and asked out loud,—­