We have sometimes looked in, for a passing moment, at the green-house, its dwelling-place, during the period of flowering,—­and then stayed for more than an hour, unable to leave the fascinating scene.  After the strange flower-bud has reared its dark head from the placid tank, moving it a little, uneasily, like some imprisoned water-creature, it pauses for a moment in a sort of dumb despair.  Then trembling again, and collecting all its powers, it thrusts open, with an indignant jerk, the rough calyx-leaves, and the beautiful disrobing begins.  The firm, white, central cone, first so closely infolded, quivers a little, and swiftly, before your eyes, the first of the hundred petals detaches its delicate edges, and springs back, opening towards the water, while its white reflection opens to meet it from below.  Many moments of repose follow,—­you watch,—­another petal trembles, detaches, springs open, and is still.  Then another, and another, and another.  Each movement is so quiet, yet so decided, so living, so human, that the radiant creature seems a Musidora of the water, and you almost blush with a sense of guilt, in gazing on that peerless privacy.  As petal by petal slowly opens, there still stands the central cone of snow, a glacier, an alp, a jungfrau, while each avalanche of whiteness seems the last.  Meanwhile, a strange rich odor fills the air, and Nature seems to concentrate all fascinations and claim all senses for this jubilee of her darling.

So pass the enchanted moments of the evening, till the fair thing pauses at last, and remains for hours unchanged.  In the morning, one by one, those white petals close again, shutting all their beauty in, and you watch through the short sleep for the period of waking.  Can this bright transfigured creature appear again, in the same chaste beauty?  Your fancy can scarcely trust it, fearing some disastrous change; and your fancy is too true a prophet.  Come again, after the second day’s opening, and you start at the transformation which one hour has secretly produced.  Can this be the virgin Victoria,—­this thing of crimson passion, this pile of pink and yellow, relaxed, expanded, voluptuous, lolling languidly upon the water, never to rise again?  In this short time every tint of every petal is transformed; it is gorgeous in beauty, but it is “Hebe turned to Magdalen.”

But our rustic water-lily, our innocent Nymphaea, never claiming such a hot-house glory, never drooping into such a blush, blooms on placidly in the quiet waters, till she modestly folds her leaves for the last time, and bows her head beneath the surface forever.  Next year she lives for us only in her children, fair and pure as herself.