The stream is deep and strong to-day; in a dry season it is much shallower, our driver says. However, our four horses flounder into it willingly, and we are soon dragged up to the top of the opposite bank. Jim swims gallantly across, and evidently enjoys his bath; we clatter over a narrow bridge with an exquisite view up and down the river, in which the bushes marvellously reflect themselves. Here is a change of scene. We are in a green meadow, purpled with autumn crocus and circled half-way round with huge grey crags. Up the side of some of these are trained pear-trees, for there is a château near at hand belonging to a rich banker of Brussels. A little way on, the trees that clothe the base of the grey rocks have already changed colour, and over them the crags sally forward in grand, round projections like the entrance towers of a baronial castle. Soon after this we reach the mill of Walzin, standing at the head of a broad weir, down which the water rushes-a sheet of silver foam-into the birch-bordered pool below. The river here divides into three, and a little way on a perpendicular ridge of red-brown rock rises abruptly from the dark water, crowned by the Château de Walzin. Some of us left the carriage, and were ferried slowly over the smooth dark stream that circles round the rocks: it is a weird, mysterious place, the water so deep that no measuring-rod has ever been found long enough to reach to the bottom; and in the rock itself is a cavern many feet in depth, which can only be got at from the water, High overhead, looking down from the very verge of the cliff, of which it seems a part, into the glassy blackness below, is the castle. Rock caverns are frequent through the Walloon country; sometimes they are of large extent, as the grotto of Han sur Lesse and others. They have been much explored and discussed, and in some of them have been found fossil remains, bones of antediluvian animals, and also human bones and skulls said to have belonged to the lowest type of mankind. The char-à-banc meantime had crossed the river again, and was sent back empty to fetch the stragglers, Jim going with it to see that all was right. Presently we reached another green-andcrocus-pied meadow, skirted by the ever-winding Lesse. But soon the valley narrowed again; whichever way we looked, rocks closed us in; huge grey boulders partly clothed with ivy, and among them the feathery green of birch-trees, the slender satin trunks telling white against the crags which overhung the grassy meadow across which we slowly drove. Some of us thought this must be like the Happy Valley off Rasselas, from which there was no outlet. The purple-stained grass, the flowered and berried hedges, the trees full of light and beauty; the river singing its pleasant tune, and glistening merrily in the sunshine; all spoke of almost Utopian peace; only the stern, grey rocks reminded us that reality lay in the world beyond them. And now we rouse up from dreams among the crocuses to cross the river again, some of us holding tightly to the carriage; for though the stream is narrow, we jolt and shake considerably over the large stones in the river-bed; and one of our middle-aged ladies is nervous, and does not enjoy the crossing as much as Jim does. We find a farm on the other side of the water, and learn that this is Chaleux. Some of us get down, and, wandering through the little garden and across a field starred with wild-flowers, we come in sight of the rocks of Chaleux. These rocks are very impressive: huge grey masses of crag overhang the river below. A little boat mirrored in the water is moored here to ferry foot-passengers over. One of the rocks stands sideways, detached from the rest-a tall, tapering block, standing out like a Cleopatra's Needle from the lofty ridge behind it. On one of these rocks stood the châlet which, tradition says, gave its name to the little village below. Many years ago, a charming girl of good family loved a handsome young peasant of the neighbourhood, and met him in a little hut or châlet which he built for her on the top of the rocks. The meetings were discovered, and the girl was shut up by her angry parents in a convent at Dinant. One evening, however, she contrived to steal the key of the garden-gate, and, hurrying across the fields, she followed the windings of the Lesse till they brought her at nightfall to the foot of the rock on which stood her lover's hut. She climbed the rock, and then, worn out with the fatigue of her long journey, she fell sound asleep on the floor of the châlet. While she slept a violent storm arose; the fierce wind and rain lashed the river till, swollen beyond its bed, it overflowed on all sides, and became a mighty stream. The little hut, overthrown by the fury of the wind, was carried into the foaming torrent below, and borne along till it broke in pieces. The unhappy girl, roused by the uproar around her, had clasped her rosary firmly between both hands. She called on Notre Dame des Agonisants, but the torrent swept her away. Next morning her body was found hanging from a nut-tree by the miraculous rosary. The lord of the manor gave her body a fitting burial, and the lover became gardener to the monks of Waulsort, near Dinant, and died some years after in the odour of sanctity.' Ever since this sad tragedy, the little village at the foot of the cliff has been called Chaleux. Once more we have to cross the river, grown much wider here, and we land in a dale, if possible more enchanting than any we have yet seen; these long green valleys, with wood-crowned heights on either side, reminded us strangely of dales in the North Riding at home, though the grey rocks, showing here so constantly, were out of keeping with the reminiscence. This valley was carpeted even more thickly than the others had been with exquisite pale purple crocus cups-with hearts of flame and stalks of snow. The river traversed the valley, and, looking back, we saw that the lofty rocks had closed us in--every now and then on the left across the water the dark side of the valley parted and gave glimpses of a gorge purple in its shadow, opening into yet another valley, betrayed by the faint line of distant mist, and a twinkling, threadlike stream which came hurrying to feed the silver-shining Lesse. Our driver said there were wonderful caverns in some of these rocks, and also at Chaleux and Furfooz. One of these is the Trou des Nutons, said to be tenanted by tiny brown dwarfs, half-benevolent, half-malicious beings, but wondrously clever-a sort of Robin Goodfellows, judging by the pranks they play. They are specially kind to widows and orphans. And now our party has gathered together again, for some of us have been busy plucking wild-flowers, Jim running in much excitement from one friend to another; and we find that the Lesse has made another sharp curve, and once more crosses our path. Here it is in front of us, bordered by low grey willows, and, as these open just before us, we see the pretty sparkling stream, and a meadow on its farther side. I believe we crossed the river eight times before we reached our journey's end, and we must certainly have looked very picturesque in these crossings, the four stout horses plunging and struggling, the gaily painted carriage, &c., in the midst of the grey-green tree-bordered river. The sundry passages seemed safely enough accomplished; but we afterwards learned that, spite of his genial demeanour and lively anecdotes, our driver's mind had not been completely at ease. The horses might have taken to swimming,' Felix confessed to one of our artists, and then we must have been carried down the river. No other driver in Belgium could have taken you through as I have done.' Just before we reached the last ford we drove along such a narrow tree-cumbered road that it was well we had again left some of our party behind. We were only four in the vis-à-vis, and branches from either side thrust themselves so across the carriage that it was evident they were not used to visitors. It is said that a stout branch lifted one of the occupants from the middle bench on to that in front (she was immediately christened 'Flocon' by one of her companions); but this sounds too much like a legend of the romantic region. We were close to the ford, when the horses started and went on rapidly, frightened at an apparition beside the road. There sat a man, as brown and uncanny as a Nuton, his black mane of hair mingled with a beard which seemed to reach his knees. He was surrounded by osiers and chippings from newly-made basket-work. As we passed he was at work upon one of the huge osier-trays used for holding the flat fruit-tarts which Walloons devour in such astonishing quantities. Its bare ribs looked like an enormous star-fish, as he held it in his hands under the shadow of the birchtrees. We had begun to cross the water for the last time, when we heard joyous cries from the stragglers we had left in a purplestarred meadow, and we saw them hastening towards us with their hands full of blackberry-branches laden with berries. We were all rather tired by the long adventurous journey, and the ripe shining fruit was intensely refreshing both to sight and taste; it looked so lovely too, hanging in tempting, manycoloured clusters from the thorny red arms. But we had not far to go now, and at a turn in the road there was a general cry of delight. There stood the square massive castle of Vève-Celles, cornered with round black-capped towers, frowning down on us from the hill it crowns. The hill is quite detached from the neighbouring falaises, and the position of the castle is one of much strength. Tradition says that Pepin d'Heristal came with his wife Plectruda, to consult St. Hadelin, the hermit of Celles, hard byand, being charmed with the beauty of the country, he built a hunting-lodge on the hill of Vève in the year 885. The Normans destroyed this simple dwelling; but about 400 years later a vast castle was built at Vève which became the property of the Beauforts. This strong fortress was attacked and burnt by the Dinantais in the wars of the period; and the present castle, a smaller building, dates from the beginning of the fifteenth century. It is now the property of the Count de Liedkerke Beaufort. As the road descended we lost sight of the château again, but soon we have passed the few cottages that form the village, and we are close to the entrance where once gates have been ; one of the old stone posts lies prostrate, ivy fast growing over it; and near this, we learned, was a stone, once in the castle wall itself, bearing this defiant inscription Veux-tu savoir qui l'ou m'appelle, |