"We've sold it to Mrs. Stoddard," said Mrs. Harding, cheerfully.

"Sold it!" echoed Rachel, dolefully.

"Yes; we felt that we didn't need it, and we did need money. She offered
me fifteen dollars for it, and I accepted."

Rachel sat down in a rocking-chair, and began straightway to show signs
of great depression of spirits.

"Life's full of disappointments!" she groaned. "Our paths is continually
beset by 'em. There's that sofa. It's so pleasant to have one in the
house when a body's sick. But, there, it's gone, and if I happen to get
down, as most likely I shall, for I've got a bad feeling in my stummick
this very minute, I shall have to go upstairs, and most likely catch my
death of cold, and that will be the end of me."

"Not so bad as that, I hope," said Mrs. Harding, cheerfully. "You know
when you was sick last, you didn't want to use the sofa; you said it
didn't lay comfortable. Besides, I hope before you are sick we may be
able to buy it back again."

Aunt Rachel shook her head despondingly.

"There ain't any use in hoping that," she said. "Timothy's got so much
behindhand that he won't be able to get up again; I know he won't!"

"But, if he only manages to find steady work soon, he will."

"No, he won't," said Rachel, positively. "I'm sure he won't. There won't