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."