"Poor prisoner!" said the little girl, with tears in her own eyes.
"Nay, my little maid, do not weep," said the jailer, taking the child in his arms.
But the little one hid her face against her father's breast and sobbed.
"See, my Lily, I will take his flower back to him, only do not cry so," said the jailer.
"Father, may I take it to him?" said the little girl, raising her tear-stained face to her father's, and gazing at him eagerly.
"Won't it do if I take it?" asked the jailer.
"Oh, please let me take it," said the child.
The rough jailer had such tenderness for his child that it was difficult for him to refuse her anything. So it was that when the prisoner lifted his weary head as he heard his door open, he beheld a beautiful child with blue eyes and yellow hair, and in her hand stretched out to him was the water-lily.
"Oh, but it is an angel!" cried the prisoner, a smile lighting his haggard face. "An angel from heaven; I must be going to die."
"No, poor man, it's little Lily," said the child, and she slid a round arm about his neck. "I am so sorry for you!"