The Nāt greeted the woman; she answered him cheerily. Then he squatted down on a piece of matting.
The rice being ready, the wife put it out on the plaintain leaves, giving one to her supposed husband, one to the boy, and keeping the other for herself. They ate together, and when they had finished drank some water from the chatty standing near. Then they sat and smoked, and talked together of the many little trifling events which went to make up their world. The woman cleared away the remains of their meal, and took out some betel chews and commenced to roll them, while the child slept behind the purdah. About half an hour passed away thus, when lo! on the stillness broke the voice of the woodman calling to his wife that he was coming, saying that he had been delayed.
The woman heard in bewildered astonishment, then turned to the Nāt, who apparently had not heeded the call, and asked him if she dreamt.
Then rising, she peered out into the gloom, just faintly relieved by the rays of a young moon, and beheld the form of a woodcutter coming between the trees, identically the same in figure and face as her husband who was there beside her. The new-comer called her by her name again, bidding her prepare something for him to eat, as he was tired and hungry.
He threw the wood down that he carried, and entered, but staggered back on seeing his counterpart squatting, quite at home, on the ground. The woman looked from one to the other, and knew not what to do or think.
There was silence for a few moments. Then he who had come last asked, when he had sufficiently recovered himself to speak—
"Who is this man who bears so strange a likeness to me?"
"I am the husband of this woman," answered the Nāt calmly, not even removing his green-leaf cigar from between his lips.
"That cannot be," exclaimed the other indignantly, "because I am he."
The Nāt shook his head, and went on smoking.