in the pure blue above, even where the mist rose from the river;
it only had glorified the clear blue into clearer violet.

Holmes stood quietly looking; he could have created a picture
like this, if he never had seen one; therefore he was able to
recognize it, accepted it into his soul, and let it do what it
would there.

Suddenly a low wind from the far Pacific coast struck from the
amber line where the sun went down. A faint tremble passed over
the great hills, the broad sweeps of colour darkened from base to
summit, then flashed again,--while below, the prairie rose and
fell like a dun sea, and rolled in long, slow, solemn waves.

The wind struck so broad and fiercely in Holmes's face that he
caught his breath. It was a savage freedom, he thought, in the
West there, whose breath blew on him,--the freedom of the
primitive man, the untamed animal man, self-reliant and
self-assertant, having conquered Nature. Well, this fierce,
masterful freedom was good for the soul, sometimes, doubtless.
It was old Knowles's vital air. He wondered if the old man would
succeed in his hobby, if he could make the slavish beggars and
thieves in the alleys yonder comprehend this fierce freedom.
They craved leave to live on sufferance now, not knowing their
possible divinity. It was a desperate remedy, this sense of
unchecked liberty; but their disease was desperate. As for
himself, he did not need it; that element was not lacking. In a
mere bodily sense, to be sure. He felt his arm. Yes, the cold
rigor of this new life had already worn off much of the clogging
weight of flesh, strengthened the muscles. Six months more in