“Can’t we sell something more, ma?” suggested the daughter.
“We have sold all our plate and jewellery, and now I’m sure I don’t know what we can dispose of, unless it be something that we really want.”
“What do you say to selling the sofa, ma?”
“Well, I don’t know, Florence. It don’t seem right to part with it. But perhaps we can do without it.”
“It will readily bring fifty dollars, I suppose.”
“Certainly. It is of the best wood and workmanship, and cost one hundred and forty dollars. Your father bought it a short time before he died, and that is less than two years past you know.”
“I should think it would bring nearly a hundred dollars,” said Florence, who knew nothing of auction sacrifices; “and that would give us enough, besides paying the quarter’s rent, to keep us comfortably until some of my bills come due.”
That afternoon the sofa was sent, and on the next afternoon Florence went to the auctioneer’s to receive the money for it.
“Have you sold that sofa yet, sir?” asked the timid girl, in a low, hesitating voice.
“What sofa, miss?” asked the clerk, looking steadily in her face with a bold stare.