"Yes," said Aunt Kate, quietly, "he is spinning his shroud. Don't disturb him, and to-morrow we will come and see what he has done."
So next day they came again into the garden, and looked under the gooseberry bush. But instead of the caterpillar, they found, hanging to the twig, a little dry brown case, or cocoon, which George said looked very much like the stump of an old cigar.
"He is in there," said Aunt Kate. "That is his coffin."
"Why, Aunt Kate! a caterpillar burying himself in a shroud and a coffin?"
"Yes; he has spun himself a fine silken shroud, and fastened himself up in a coffin."
"Is he dead?" asked Ella.
"You would think so if you could see him. He is nothing now but a little hard dry shell, which neither moves nor breathes. He can neither see nor hear."
"Then he must be dead," said George.
"No, not dead; there remains a spark of life in the little dried-up body. By-and-by, when the right time comes, you will see him burst out of that shroud and coffin, but not as an ugly caterpillar: he will be a beautiful butterfly with lovely wings."