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then, not butterflies, but caterpillars come forth from 
under it, and these again change to white butterflies, 
streaked with black, like these you see.” 
As Mary returned home at the end of this happy 
day, she thought of all the Hawthorns had told her, 
about the people who lived in caves and were so 
glad to die, and the butterflies who lived under 
their silken tents, and were so glad to be alive. She 
had heard before of the birth of the butterfly from 
out the body of the sluggish, greedy caterpillar; 
and she thought how pleasant it would be, if she 
could fly out of her body and go soaring up among 
the birds and the clouds, far into the deep blue sky, 
where her little baby brother went last summer 
when he died. 
The sun had now sunk behind the wood, and the 
pale yellow flowers of the Evening Primrose were 
bursting from their envelopes, like bright stars in 
