There is nothing more and nothing less to be noted in their machine-like obstinacy.
This time it is a bitter night.

A cold snap has supervened, was indeed foretold in the evening by the garden caterpillars, who refused to come out despite appearances which to my duller senses seemed to promise a continuation of the fine weather.

At daybreak the rosemary-walks are all asparkle with rime and for the second time this year there is a sharp frost.

The large pond in the garden is frozen over.

What can the caterpillars in the conservatory be doing?
Let us go and see.
All are ensconced in their nests, except the stubborn processionists on the edge of the vase, who, deprived of shelter as they are, seem to have spent a very bad night.