“Ah!” said he.  “This coating is to keep it safe.  I must not harm it.”  And he went on with his walk.

The next day he almost stepped upon the plant before he thought of it.  He stooped to look at it.  There were two leaves now, and the plant was much stronger and greener than it was the day before.  He staid by it a long time, looking at all its parts.

Every morning after that, Charney went at once to his little plant.  He wanted to see if it had been chilled by the cold, or scorched by the sun.  He wanted to see how much it had grown.

One day as he was looking from his window, he saw the jailer go across the yard.  The man brushed so close to the little plant, that it seemed as though he would crush it.  Charney trembled from head to foot.

“O my Pic-cio-la!” he cried.

When the jailer came to bring his food, he begged the grim fellow to spare his little plant.  He expected that the man would laugh at him; but al-though a jailer, he had a kind heart.

“Do you think that I would hurt your little plant?” he said.  “No, indeed!  It would have been dead long ago, if I had not seen that you thought so much of it.”

“That is very good of you, indeed,” said Char-ney.  He felt half ashamed at having thought the jailer unkind.

Every day he watched Pic-cio-la, as he had named the plant.  Every day it grew larger and more beautiful.  But once it was almost broken by the huge feet of the jailer’s dog.  Charney’s heart sank within him.

“Picciola must have a house,” he said.  “I will see if I can make one.”

So, though the nights were chilly, he took, day by day, some part of the firewood that was allowed him, and with this he built a little house around the plant.

The plant had a thousand pretty ways which he noticed.  He saw how it always bent a little toward the sun; he saw how the flowers folded their petals before a storm.

He had never thought of such things before, and yet he had often seen whole gardens of flowers in bloom.

One day, with soot and water he made some ink; he spread out his hand-ker-chief for paper; he used a sharp-ened stick for a pen—­and all for what?  He felt that he must write down the doings of his little pet.  He spent all his time with the plant.

“See my lord and my lady!” the jailer would say when he saw them.

As the summer passed by, Picciola grew more lovely every day.  There were no fewer than thirty blossoms on its stem.

But one sad morning it began to droop.  Charney did not know what to do.  He gave it water, but still it drooped.  The leaves were with-er-ing.  The stones of the prison yard would not let the plant live.

Charney knew that there was but one way to save his treasure.  Alas! how could he hope that it might be done?  The stones must be taken up at once.

But this was a thing which the jailer dared not do.  The rules of the prison were strict, and no stone must be moved.  Only the highest officers in the land could have such a thing done.