"Not as said to a discreet person like Barbara," replied Grandmamma.
"But still--they have the right to all we can give them, the little
dears, as long as we are here to give it. I could not bear them ever to
have the idea that we felt them a burden."

"Certainly not," agreed Grandpapa, looking up for a moment. "A _burden_
they can never be; still it is a great responsibility--a great charge,
in one sense, as Nurse said--to have in our old age. For, do the best we
can, my love, we cannot be to them what their parents would have been.
Nor can we hope to be with them till we can see them able to take care
of themselves."

"There is no knowing," said Grandmamma. "God is good. He may spare us
yet some years for the little ones' sakes. And it is a mercy to think
they have each other. It is always 'us' with them--never 'me.'"

"Yes," said Grandpapa, "they love each other dearly;" and as if that
settled all the difficulties the future might bring, he disappeared
finally into the newspaper.

Grandmamma, for her part, _meant_ to disappear into her netting. But
somehow it did not go on as briskly as usual. Her hands seemed to lag,
and more than once she was startled by a tear rolling quickly down her
thin soft old cheek--one of the slow-coming, touching tears of old age.
She would have been sorry for Grandpapa to see that she was crying; she
was always cheerful with him. But of that there was no fear. So
Grandmamma sat and cried a little quietly to herself, for the children's
innocent words had roused some sad thoughts, and brought before her some
pictures of happy pasts and happy "might-have-beens."