She remembered the first day as though it were yesterday. Her daddy had bent down and kissed her softly on her forehead, brushing aside one stray lock of hair as he did so. She remembered quivering under his touch as he sat on the edge of the bed for what was usually a good-night story.

That night there was no story.

"Alice," he'd begun, "It's time for you to learn something." He'd reached into the chest at the end of her bed and pulled out a long, flat box, which he'd then handed to her.

Inside, there had been seven glittering balls.

"These are my gifts to you. Take them, and take care of them. Someday I may ask you for one of them back, and, if you love me, you will give it. You may find more, over the years, or you may lose and break these. If one of them ever gets damaged, bring it to me and I will help you with it; if you are tired of one, tell me, and I will either show you a better way to use it, or take it from you."

She had slept with the box under her pillow that night, and had begun to play with it the next morning. There was always something new to discover about the balls. One day, she found that the red one opened and was filled with small, white pebbles. Another day, she found that the green one and the blue one fit together like a puzzle.

A few years later, she had dropped the white ball. Crying, she had run to her daddy; he had looked at the shattered remains and told her she must let him have it, that it would no longer do her any good. It was then that she had seen the silver ball.

"O Daddy!" she cried, "Mayn't I have the silver ball instead?"

He had looked at her, and it, and smiled.

"Yes, daughter."

The silver ball was smaller than the rest, but it glittered brightly. She loved it more than any other, and soon spent nearly all her time playing with it, exploring it, growing to love it. She showed it to many people, family, friends, and even friends of friends. Sometimes she and her daddy would take it out and play with it together, just the two of them, and this was most beautiful of all.

A few times, she dented it, but her Daddy was always able to fix it, sometimes, even to make it better. Sometimes she'd do the same with her other balls, but sometimes she waited longer before running to him with their flaws.

One afternoon, as she and her Daddy were sitting together in the forest and playing with the ball, he paused, looked at her, and asked, "If I asked you for the ball, would you give it to me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Would you let me have it back if I asked you for it?"

"Of course, Daddy. It's yours."

"Then let us take it, together, and make it more beautiful than ever before."

They walked together to his workshop, where he led her to a cauldron filled with flames.

"Drop it in."

She protested, almost in tears.

"Don't you trust me, Alice?"

She dropped it in. He let her fish it out, a few minutes later, when it was, as he said, purified. She gasped. The ball, once sparkling, now glowed with a pure inner radiance. It was more sleek and smooth than ever; she was reflected in it, but it also reflected her daddy in it. She liked to think that it glowed because of him. They went out to play with it again; it had never been so beautiful or so much fun.

She was enraptured with the new ball; it never left her body. She still played with the others, on occasion, but the little silver ball was still always tucked in her pockets. She could not let it go. Sometimes she would take it and play with it when she should have been talking to her daddy at night, but this didn't happen very often.

She had been out cuddling it one evening, long past bedtime, when she heard her daddy's feet approach.

"Do you love it more than you love me?"

"No, Daddy."

"Then why do you neglect me to play with it?"

She cried as she realized he was right. That night, they went inside together, and she emptied all the balls into his big hands, crying, but happy. She would never forget the look of adoration that rose to his eyes when she finally said, "Here you go, Daddy; they're all yours anyway. I love you."

He returned the green and blue ones, and the red one, but the yellow and the pink ones he kept, saying, "You haven't used them much anyway. If you want them back someday, ask me." He also gave her a new one, light purple in color, with two thin cream stripes.

She thanked him, and, just as he'd turned to go, he kissed her and handed her the silver one, too.

"You may keep it, my precious girl," he said as he kissed her again.

She enjoyed it more than ever, and let him share it with her every time she took it out. It was so much more fun when he was there to help her and to tell her how much he loved to watch her play with it.

The next crises with the silver ball came one night when she slipped, walking down the stairs. She cried, running to her daddy yet again when she saw the big gash running down the side.

"I can help you fix it, daughter," he said, "But it might never be the same again, and it will take a long time."

It became heavier, then, and sometimes she'd work out several blemishes and then bump it wrong and have to start all over again. It was slow work, and sometimes she almost gave up. Finally, she turned to her daddy.

"Daddy, I can't do it as well as I think I can. Will you take care of it?"

"I can fix it as much as it should be fixed, but it may take a while, and you would have to give it completely to me for a long time."

She kissed its broken frame goodbye and watched him slip it in his pocket as he walked off to the workshed. He'd brought her another one not long after, this one the rich brown of cappucino, with a texture not unlike that of her silver ball.

"Enjoy this one in the time being." She had.

After almost a year, he'd brought the silver ball back.

"Here it is. I expect you'll find it different; it may not work for you for much longer."

She'd been ecstatic then. Of course it would work; her daddy could fix anything, do anything, make anything beautiful.

Now she stood before him, squirming. He'd just asked her the hardest question again.

"Would you give it to me if I asked you to?"

He'd only just given it back; it wasn't long enough. She squirmed.

"Will you give it back if I let you have it for a while?"

"I can't promise you that. If you give it to me, you will be blessed because of it, but you cannot know what I am going to do with it, or it will not be a true gift."

She cried. She offered it to him, but as his hand was closing around it, she burst into tears and whimpered, "I want it back."

He gave it to her.

"There, see, I let you have it."

"Not really."

She cried again, and looked at him. She begged and argued, tried to plead, and he wouldn't move.

"You need to learn to give it to me, Alice. You need to give it to me. Now. And you need to trust that I'm right, that you'll be happier because of it."

She couldn't struggle any more. She dropped the ball; it rolled to his feet, and he picked it up, slowly. She walked away quietly, eyes brimming with tears. In her room, she dropped to the bed and sobbed as though her heart were breaking, which it was. She was so miserable that she never noticed the box on her bedside table, the box from her daddy.

When he came to tuck her in later, he looked at his unopened parcel and sighed. He'd had to do it. Her new gift was so much more incredble than the first, if only she'd take it.

He stared at her heaving shoulders, then at his gift. Let her mourn. The new gift would still be there when she awoke.