270 LINES IN PLEASANT PLACES 



the distant horizon of mountain range. So absolutely 

 out of the world was this tranquil spot that I saw a 

 deer come out of the thicket and drink of the lake 

 while I was playing a fish." 



With my memory of that holiday quickened by 

 the news from Belgium, I called upon Mr. Walton in 

 Berkeley Square to learn what had happened to his 

 delightful fishing quarters. He was in his eighty-first 

 year then, but hale and hearty, and on the look-out 

 for some trout water that should replace what he 

 feared was now a ruined home. He had had no word 

 from Les Epioux since the war, but we knew that 

 the enemy had been all around. The chalet is but a 

 quarter of a mile off the main route from Sedan to 

 Libramont, which is the junction station for Brussels. 

 It being an altogether undefended district, the enemy 

 would be at ease there, and perhaps have taken toll 

 of the deer and fish which might be secured by some 

 of the sneak methods of warfare at which they were 

 adepts. The pictures and books of the chalet would 

 be portable loot to anyone who valued them more than 

 clocks and cooking utensils, but the books would cer- 

 tainly reveal a hated Englishman as the owner, and on 

 the whole we really could not expect to find the 

 chalet above ground, unless some admiring enemy had 

 earmarked it as his private property, on the chance of 

 Belgium becoming a German province. 



All that Mr. Walton had gathered from the war news 

 was that there had been a cavalry engagement at or 

 near Florenville, five miles distant. There was just 

 the chance that the invaders had to be hustled off on 

 the quick march before discovering those lakes, for 

 about that phase of the operations the tide of battle 

 was setting hotly to the west, and, as we know, accord- 



