George took from a corner a pretty little shining walnut table of the shape of the trays used by patients for eating on in their beds. After placing upon it the bowl of soup, he gently pushed it in front of the old man. "There is none like you, my boy, for such thoughtfulness," observed the grandfather. "It would have been a devilish thing, grandfather, if, with all my carpenter's skill, I had failed to put together this little table that is so handy for you." "Oh! You have an answer for everything--I know that," observed the old man, smiling. And with a shaky hand he began his meal. So tremulous were his motions that several times the spoon struck against his teeth. "Oh, my poor boy!" exclaimed the old man sadly. "Just see how my hands tremble. It seems to me they grow worse every day." "Nonsense, grandfather! To me, on the contrary, your hands seem to be growing steadier--" "Oh, no! 'Tis all over--all over. There is no remedy can bring me help in my infirmity." "Why, do you prefer me to take your hopeless view of the case--" "That's just what I should have done since this affliction began. And, yet, I can not accustom myself to the idea of being an invalid, and a burden to others unto the end of my life." "Grandfather! Grandfather! If you talk that way we shall have to fall out." "I wonder what made me commit the stupidity of taking to the trade of gilder of metals. At the end of twenty years, often before that, one-half of those artisans shake like myself; but, differently from myself, they have no grandchildren who spoil them--" "Grandfather!" "Yes, you spoil me; I repeat it--you spoil me--" "Let it be so! Now, then, I shall give you tit for tat; it is the only way to spike your guns, as we were taught in the regiment. Well, I knew a fine man; his name was father Morin; he was a widower with a daughter of about eighteen. The worthy man married his daughter to a gallant young fellow, but over-much given to resent wrong, and one day he received an ugly blow in a fight, so ugly that two years after his marriage he died, leaving his young wife with a boy in her arms." "George! George!" "The poor young mother nursed her child. Her husband's death was such a shock to her that she followed him shortly after--and her little boy remained upon the hands of his grandfather." "Good God, George! How merciless you are! What is the sense in ever coming back to all that?"