Days turned into nights, and Mr. Gold worked tirelessly. He didn't eat much, and he didn't sleep at all. He grew pale and tired, his grand clothes now rumpled and dusty. He fetched every single treasure he owned: rare paintings, carved furniture, even the golden platters from his dining room. He piled them by the small grey pot, a mountain of his life's collection.
Mrs. Gold and the children, Lily and Tom, watched him with worried eyes. 'Father,' said Lily gently, 'you look so weary. Why don't you rest? What is this strange pot?'
'I must fill it, my dear!' Mr. Gold declared, his voice hoarse from effort. 'The monk promised happiness! If only I could fill it, then we would all be truly joyful!' He didn't notice the sadness in his children's eyes, or the frown of concern on Mrs. Gold's face.