Such a day in Horace Graham's life was a certain
hot Sunday in August, that he spent at the big hotel at
Chaudfontaine.
Every traveller along the great high road leading from
Brussels to Cologne knows Chaudfontaine, the little village
distant about six miles from Liege, with its church, its big
hotel, and its scattered cottages, partly forges, partly
restaurants, which shine white against a dark green background
of wooded hills, and gleam reflected in the clear tranquil
stream by which they stand. On every side the hills seem to
fold over and enclose the quiet green valley; the stream winds
and turns, the long poplar-bordered road follows its course;
amongst the hills are more valleys, more streams, woods,
forests, sheltered nooks, tall grey limestone rocks, spaces of
cornfields, and bright meadows. Everyone admires the charming
scenery as the train speeds across it, through one tunnel
after another; but there are few amongst our countrymen who
care to give it more than a passing glance of admiration, or
to tarry in the quiet little village even for an hour, in
their great annual rush to Spa, or the Rhine, or Switzerland.
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