The prisoner burst into passionate weeping, and kissed the small hand that lay upon his shoulder.
The jailer blew his nose like a trumpet.
"You may be called anything," said the prisoner, "but you are surely an angel."
From this time Lily came to see her prisoner every day, and he grew almost gay.
In the meantime the water-lily drooped and died, but she was happy, for she had fulfilled her mission.
The prisoner took the dead flower and laid it on his heart. "Poor little dead flower," he said, "it was you who brought me my little comforter."
As he said these words he fancied he felt the dead flower move; but it might have been the beating of his own heart.