every direction rested upon and roamed
over splendid masses of forest trees; they flourished down to the
water's edge and fell away and around in receding tiers, becoming grand
dark masses of pine on 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 certainly 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, according to the enemy's time-table, there was to be in a
week or so a grand victorious entry into Paris, previous to a glorious
descent upon English shores. There was a chance, therefore, that the
Chalet du Lac remained serenely whole by the lakeside. I tried to
cheer Mr. Walton by these surmises, but he shook his head, remarking,
"I am afraid I shall never see my dear little chalet again, or, if so,
everything dreadfully mutilated." So we turned the conversation, and I
beguiled him into telling me once more the history of his