The log cabin Democrat., 1908-09-14
THE GARCOYLE
 ROOM
Copyright. by shortstory Put. Co)
By ANNA MCCLURE SHOlI.

iofiillH9 me that by the death Of my great-uncle, William Gourtright, I had become possessor of his properly. consisting of several thousand pounds and an ancient house. near Canterbury.
 On the voyage over. ] had leisure to arrange into some semblanee of personality the slight knowledge I possessed of my deceased relative. In
 dr family circle he had always been spoken of with q curious mixture of awe and distrust, as of some one far removed from everyday folk by his habits of life and thought. I knew that in his youth he had studied architecture, law and chemistry, but had adopted no profession. q restless and unsuitable intelled5 impelling him always onward to new fields of knowledge. On the death of his fa- ther he invested his share of the patrimony to advantage and left the United States, never to return. That had been 40 years ago. During his long self-exile he travelled extensively in Europe and Asia; and, at last, purchased house in the south of England, which he filled with the strange curiosities and bizarre bric- a-brac collected in his travels. In this house he had died.
 When l passed for the first time across its threshold, and stood in the broad, low-roofed hall, filled with an indescribable tumble of tapestries. Indian brasses, old china, eccIcsiasti- cal vessels, altar hangings, bridal chests and what moi, l had the sen sation of being in the presence of my uncle himself The moral atmos- phere of houses Is sometimes as subtle and penetrative as that sur rounding an impressive personality. The spirit of William Courtright had found expression and embodi- ment in the strange furnishings of this sixteenth century dwelling.
 "A kind of modern Faust l re- fected, as the silent 'housekeepcr, an Inheritance with the house. led me from room to room with stony inn passlveness, as if she herself were but a bit of ancient bric-a-brac come to life.
 'This is a fine bedroom. l will use this while 1 am hcre.'
 We were standing in the center of a large room which seemed of later date than the rest of the house, its yaulted roof and pointed windows being of the pseudo-Gothic of the eighteenth century. Like the other rooms, it contained bric-a-brac and art treasures, but more sparselv placed The height of the ceiling and the views from the lofty win dows commended 1t to me as an airy and pleasant bed chamber.
 This was Mir. Courtright's room, sir. If l may be so bold as to sug- gest, sir, I would say that the blue bed chamber is to be preferred. It has the sun and the view of the cathedral
 1 was astonishcd to discern quaver of anxiety in the womans voice. What possible difference could it make to her which room took? I turned and looked directly at her The stony mask had dropped from her face, Anxiety and plead ing were ill her dim eyes.
 ''But this room is pleasant" I said. q prefer it.
 "Very well, sir" Her voice was resigned.
 As l was turning 10 the door the sun, which through the morning had been obscured by heavy clouds. burst forth, revealing every part of the room with distinctness. Then I mo- ticed for the first time horrible ob- ject--a large stone gargoyle, the size, indeed, of a dwarf, fastened high on the wall above the fire place. No stone monster on the balustrade of Notre Dame. where mediaeval fancy has taken its most grotesque shapes, could compare with it for hideousness. The knees were drawn up to the bumped breast, as if in a spasm of pain; the prcter- naturally long arms were wrapped i