The boy's voice was sweet and true, and he sang the little song prettily, but so mournfully that tears streamed down the broad, red face of the peasant woman.
"Why do you sing to break one's heart?" she demanded, and Banda Bela answered:
"I sang it but as my mother sang when she was here."
"She is dead, then?"
"She and my father, my brothers and sisters. I have no one left." The boy's face clouded.
"Me you have," said Marushka, with a funny little pout.
"I must go to my herd now," said the shepherd. "Come back to-night and we shall give you your supper for another song."
They reached the shepherd's hut that evening to find his wife awaiting him, but he did not come. He was far away with his herd. As it grew dark his wife gave the children bread and milk and bade them hurry to bed.
"It is late for little children like you," she said. "To-morrow we will see you again. To-day I asked about you at the camp and got but black looks in answer."