ap-py. He had been put into prison wrong-ful-ly, and it seemed to
him as though there was no one in the world who cared for him.

He could not read, for there were no books in the prison. He was not
allowed to have pens or paper, and so he could not write. The time
dragged slowly by. There was nothing that he could do to make the days
seem shorter. His only pastime was walking back and forth in the paved
prison yard. There was no work to be done, no one to talk with.

One fine morning in spring, Char-ney was taking his walk in the yard.
He was counting the paving stones, as he had done a thousand times
before. All at once he stopped. What had made that little mound of
earth between two of the stones?

He stooped down to see. A seed of some kind had fallen between the
stones. It had sprouted; and now a tiny green leaf was pushing its way
up out of the ground. Charney was about to crush it with his foot,
when he saw that there was a kind of soft coating over the leaf.

"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,"