ed it.

Mrs. Dudley told them what it was, and that if they preserved it, they
would in a few days see a butterfly escape from it. Eddie looked up
astonished. She also told them that it was once a worm, crawling
about upon the earth; that it had climbed up, and suspended itself
under the shelter of the leaves, to await its change into a new and
more attractive form of being.

Mrs. Dudley took the chrysalis from the vine and carried it to the
house, and put it on the mantle in her room. Every day the children
looked at it to ascertain if there was any change. Soon the colour
began to fade, and the delicate pea-green became an ashen white. Then
it opened slightly, where there had from the first seemed to be lines
of division, and they could peep in at the imprisoned insect. The
opening became wider and wider, and one day, when Eddie came into the
room and went as usual to look at the chrysalis, the shell was empty!
The butterfly had escaped. He uttered an exclamation of mingled
surprise and disappointment. As he turned his head, he saw, on the
little cotton muff of Mary's doll, the butterfly for which he had so
patiently watched.

"Here it is, mother!" he shouted in the most joyous tones, and his
eyes sparkled with delight.

Eddie and his mother observed it for some time. Its long, slender legs
rested on the muff, and ever and anon it would open and close its
brilliant wings, as if to try their power, or to dry the miniature
feathers which adorned them. Its colour was a rich orange, shaded from
the lighter tints to the deeper, and variegated with stripes of black.
The children examined it with a microscope, which made it appear even
more beautiful and wonderful than before.

It remained on the muff several hours, and then flew to the window,
and alighted on the curtain. At evening, it was found on the cushion
of a spool-stand, and there it passed the night. The next day it
disappeared, and the children saw it no more. It probably flew away
through the open window, to enjoy its brief life under the smiling
sun.

The children talked much about the transformations which had taken
place in the life of that caterpillar. Their mother told them that the
butterfly was sometimes considered a type of immortality. In this
world we are, like the worm, in an inferior state of existence. Our
bodies are laid in the grave, but _we_ are not dead, any more than the
unmoving chrysalis--which remained so long on the mantel just where