The far-off barking of a dog on the invisible river-bar nearly a mile beneath them came to them like a sound in a dream.

They had risen, and, standing in the doorway, by common consent turned their faces to the east.

It was the frequent attitude of the home-remembering miner, and it gave him the crowning glory of the view.
For, beyond the pine-hearsed summits, rarely seen except against the evening sky, lay a thin, white cloud like a dropped portion of the Milky Way.

Faint with an indescribable pallor, remote yet distinct enough to assert itself above and beyond all surrounding objects, it was always there.

It was the snow-line of the Sierras.
They turned away and silently reseated themselves, the same thought in the minds of each.