"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,—
"Who are you who are singing with me?"
And a little thin voice answered out of the shadows by the roadside, under the trees,—
"I am Misery."