grew, and opened her flowers and sent out her perfume to make glad the
heart of her lonely friend.

But, alas! the day came when Picciola began to droop and wither. She
seemed about to die. The poor prisoner was frantic with grief and
cried, "Is my little one, my joy, my hope, the only thing for which I
live, to be taken from me?" Searching, he found that as Picciola had
grown taller her stem had had grown larger, and now there was not room
enough for it in the crevice between the stones. Her sap,--her life
blood,--was running away, as the rough edges of the stones cut into her
delicate stem. Nothing could save her but to lift those cruel stones.
The prisoner tore at them with his weak hands. Weeping, he begged the
jailer to raise them, but the jailer could do nothing. No one but the
king could cause them to be lifted. But how could the prisoner ask the
king? The king was far away. The prisoner must send a letter to him,
but he had no pen, ink or paper; so he wrote on his handkerchief with a
bit of charred wood and begged, not for his own life, but for the life
of Picciola,--that the king would cause the stones that were killing
her to be raised.

When the king read the prisoner's letter he said, "No man who is really
wicked could care so much for a little, simple flower. I will not only
have the stones raised that are killing his Picciola, but I will pardon
him. He shall be free because of the love he bears his plant."

So the prisoner left his lonely cell carrying with him his
Picciola,--his little one whom he had saved and who in turn had set him
free.