A cloud floated slowly above the mountain peak.

Vast, fleecy and white as the crested foam of a sea-wave, it sailed through the sky with a divine air of majesty, seeming almost to express a consciousness of its own grandeur.

Over a spacious tract of Southern California it extended its snowy canopy, moving from the distant Pacific Ocean across the heights of the Sierra Madre, now and then catching fire at its extreme edge from the sinking sun, which burned like a red brand flung on the roof of a roughly built hut situated on the side of a sloping hollow in one of the smaller hills.

The door of the hut stood open; there were a couple of benches on the burnt grass outside, one serving as a table, the other as a chair.

Papers and books were neatly piled on the table,--and on the chair, if chair it might be called, a man sat reading.