WATER-LILIES 109 
vacy. 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 con- 
centrate all fascinations and claim all senses for 
this jubilee of her darling. 
So pass the enchanted moments of the even- 
ing, 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 loveliness? 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 Vic- 
toria, —this thing of crimson passion, this 
pile of pink and yellow, relaxed, expanding, 
voluptuous, lolling languidly upon the water, 
never to rise again? In this short time every 
tint of every petal is transformed; it is gor- 
geous in beauty, but it is “ Hebe turned to 
Magdalen.” 
Such is the Victoria Regia. But our rustic 
water-lily, our innocent Nympheea, never claim- 
