t had access to the
book; with him I had prayed for it. I had broken into a cold sweat of
fear when the jailer first menaced it; I had hated the wind that bent
it roughly, and implored the sun. I had sung a paean of joy at its
budding, and worshipped in awe before its thirty perfect blossoms. The
Count had named it 'Picciola'--the little one--to me also it was a
personal possession. That night we lived the life of our 'little one'
over again, the Count and I, and never were our anxieties and our joys
more poignant.

"Next morning," says Mrs. Porter, "I dared my crowd to see how long
they could remain on the grounds, and yet reach the assembly room
before the last toll of the bell. This scheme worked. Coming in so late
the principal opened exercises without remembering my paper. Again, at
noon, I was as late as I dared be, and I escaped until near the close
of the exercises, through which I sat in cold fear. When my name was
reached at last the principal looked at me inquiringly and then
announced my inspiring mathematical subject. I arose, walked to the
front, and made my best bow. Then I said: 'I waited until yesterday
because I knew absolutely nothing about my subject'--the audience
laughed--'and I could find nothing either here or in the library at
home, so last night I reviewed Saintine's masterpiece, "Picciola."'

"Then instantly I began to read. I was almost paralyzed at my audacity,
and with each word I expected to hear a terse little interruption.
Imagine my amazement when I heard at the end of the first page: 'Wait a
minute!' Of course I waited, and the principal left the room. A moment
later she reappeared accompanied by the superintendent of the city
schools. 'Begin again,' she said. 'Take your time.'

"I was too amazed to speak. Then thought came in a rush. My paper was
good. It was as good as I had believed it. It was better than I had
known. I did go on! We took that assembly room and the corps of
teachers into our confidence, the Count and I, and told them all that
was in our hearts about a little flower that sprang between the paving
stones of a prison yard. The Count and I were free spirits. From the
book I had learned that. He got into political trouble through it, and
I had got into mathematical trouble, and we told our troubles. One
instant the room was in laughter, the next the boys bowed their heads,
and the girls who had forgotten their handkerchiefs cried in their
aprons. For almost sixteen bi