There came into view another opening among the pines as the two went on.  The sun was ascending a cloudless sky, and far away in the cerulean arch of glimmering splendors the crystal peaks and domes of St. Helens appeared again.

The girl stopped.

“What now?” said the woman, testily.

“Look—­yonder!”

“Look yonder—­what for?  That’s nothing but a mountain, a great waste of land all piled up to the sky, and covered with a lot of ice and snow.  I don’t see what they were made for, any way—­just to make people go round, I suppose, so that the world will not be too easy for them.”

“Oh, mother, I do not see how you can feel so out here!  I never dreamed of anything so beautiful!”

“Feel so out here!  What do you mean?  Haven’t I always been good to you?  Didn’t I give you a good home in Lynn after your father and mother died?  Wasn’t I a mother to you?  Didn’t I nurse you through the fever?  Didn’t I send for you to come way out here with the immigrants, and did you ever find a better friend in the world than I have been to you?”

“Yes, mother, but—­”

“And don’t I let you play the violin, which the Methody elder didn’t much approve of?”

“Yes, mother, you have always been good to me, and I love you more than anybody else on earth.”

There swept into view a wild valley of giant trees, and rose clear above it, a scene of overwhelming magnificence.

“Oh, mother, I can hardly look at it—­isn’t it splendid?  It makes me feel like crying.”

The practical, resolute woman was about to say, “Well, look the other way then,” but she checked the rude words.  The girl had told her that she loved her more than any one else in the world, and the confession had touched her heart.

“Well, Gretchen, that mountain used to make me feel so sometimes when I first came out here.  I always thought that the mountains would look peakeder than they do.  I didn’t think that they would take up so much of the land.  I suppose that they are all well enough in their way, but a pioneer woman has no time for sentiments, except hymns.  I don’t feel like you now, and I don’t think that I ever did.  I couldn’t learn to play the violin and the musical glasses if I were to try, and I am sure that I should never go out into the woodshed to try to rhyme sun with fun; no, Gretchen, all such follies as these I should shun.  What difference does it make whether a word rhymes with one word or another?”

To the eye of the poetic and musical German girl the dead volcano, with its green base and frozen rivers and dark, glimmering lines of carbon, seemed like a fairy tale, a celestial vision, an ascent to some city of crystal and pearl in the sky.  To her foster mother the stupendous scene was merely a worthless waste, as to Wordsworth’s unspiritual wanderer: 

    “A primrose by the river’s brim,
     A yellow primrose was to him,
     And it was nothing more.”