The Treasure Box Read Online Free PDF Page B

don’t you?”
    â€œTomorrow?” Jacob winked in Bridget’s direction. “I believe tomorrow is . . . Friday.”
    â€œAnd what else?”
    â€œLaundry day,” Bridget chimed in.
    â€œAnd what else?”
    â€œHmm.” Jacob scratched his head. “Market day in the village?”
    Sophie rolled her eyes. “No, no. Think hard, Papa. It’s something about me .”
    â€œAbout you? Give me a hint.”
    â€œIt’s a special day.”
    â€œSpecial day, special day—” Jacob pretended to wrack his brain. “Does it have something to do with a number? Maybe— two numbers?”
    Sophie let out a giggle. “Yes.”
    â€œCould it be—no, it’s inconceivable. Tomorrow couldn’t possibly be Sophie’s birthday! ” He bent over her and tickled her until she howled. “And you’re going to be—what? Nineteen? Twenty-six? Fifty-four? I forget.”
    â€œSilly Papa!” Sophie panted between squeals of laughter. “You know. It’s 1910. The century is ten years old, and so am I. Or I will be tomorrow.”
    Jacob took his place at the table and regained his composure.
    â€œMy little girl—ten years old! I can hardly believe it. I can still remember you in your mother’s arms—” He stopped abruptly and swiped at his eyes.
    â€œLet’s have supper before it gets cold,” Bridget said quickly.
    She sat down, and they all joined hands.
    â€œGod of the Universe,” Jacob prayed, not bowing his head but letting his gaze drift from his daughter to Bridget to the food on the table, “you give us many gifts. The bounty of the fields for our nourishment, the warmth of family, the joys of work and play. Thank you for all these blessings, for laughter, and for love.
    May we ever live with a grateful heart. Amen.”
    â€œAmen,” Sophie echoed and began heaping potatoes on her plate.
    A grateful heart . . .
    The words gnawed through Vita’s stomach lining like a parasite. She could recall—faintly, like the echo of a childhood taunt—a time when she, too, had uttered such prayers. A time when gratitude to a benevolent Higher Power came naturally, freely.
    Once upon a time, Vita Kirk had believed in God, had embraced the fairy tale with all the credulity of the green and gullible. Sunday school, children’s choir, confirmation class. Prayers at home around the dinner table and at bedtime. Vita had conversed with the Almighty, and the Almighty had heard and answered. Or so she assumed.
    But she had been much younger then, much less experienced in the futility of hope.
    And now she looked at Jacob Stillwater and wondered: What does this man, this tinker, have to be grateful for? His home was little more than a hovel. He made pots for a living, and if the scant dinner upon his table was any indication, a meager living at that.
    His wife was dead, her tasks taken up by a crude, beefy-faced Irish washerwoman. The only birthday gift he could afford to give his daughter was a tin box made in his pathetic little shop.
    A place to keep her treasures—in the unlikely event that she had any treasures to keep.
    Vita picked up the box and held it in both hands, considering the labor that went into its creation. Despite herself, a stab of pity knifed through her. Poor Jacob. He could have been an artist, could have given himself to painting or goldsmithing or jewelry making—something that would have lifted him out of his poverty, anything besides hammering out cheap cooking pots for others as wretched and miserable as himself. The man was trapped in a life of squalor and deprivation. And yet he smiled broadly, laughed warmly, and prayed his little ritual of thanksgiving with sincerity. He didn’t even know enough to realize what he was missing.
    She lifted the lid and considered the epigram: Love Is the Key That Unlocks Every Portal. If Jacob Stillwater had written those