ldest
and most respectable families of St. Louis, and, as a result of that
union, had one son, Lucius, who grew up reckless of restraint, and
preferred to spend his time in New Orleans, rather than upon the
plantation. Lucius was a young man of twenty-six, unsettled in habits
when the father died, and, against his inclination, was compelled to
return to Missouri and assume control of the property. He found
matters in rather bad condition, and his was not at all the type of
mind to remedy them. Much of the land had been already irretrievably
lost through speculation, and, when his father's obligations had been
met, and his own gambling debts paid, the estate, once so princely and
magnificent, was reduced to barely five hundred acres, together with a
comparatively small amount of cash. This condition sufficed to sober
Lucius for a few years, and he married a Menard, of Cape Girardeau, of
excellent family but not great wealth, and earnestly endeavored to
rebuild his fortunes. Unfortunately his reform did not last. The evil
influences of the past soon proved too strong for one of his
temperament. A small town, redolent of all the vices of the river,
grew up about the Landing, while friends of other days sought his
hospitality. The plantation house became in time a rendezvous for all
the wild spirits of that neighborhood, and stories of fierce drinking
bouts and mad gambling were current in St. Louis.

Common as such tales as these were in those early days of the West, I
still remained boy enough in heart to feel a fascination in
Thockmorton's narrative. Besides, there was at the time so little else
to occupy my mind that it inevitably drifted back to the same topic.

"Have you ever been at Beaucaire, Captain?" I asked, eager for more
intimate details.

"We always stop at the Landing, but I have only once been up the bluff
to where the house stands. It must have been a beautiful place in its
day; it is imposing even now, but showing signs of neglect and abuse.
The Judge was away from home--in St. Louis, I believe--the day of my
visit. He had sold me some timber, and I went out with the family
lawyer, a man named Haines living at the Landing, to look it over."

"The house was closed?"

"No; it is never closed. The housekeeper was there, and also the two
daughters."

"Daughters?"

"Certainly; hadn't I told you about them? Both girls are accepted as
his daughters; but, if all I have heard is true, one must