We expected to find this strange group of buildings deserted, but after
inspecting the chapel, which was modeled after Newstead Abbey, and
after rambling through the old-fashioned garden that Miller himself had
planted--a garden with a perfect riot of colors--suddenly a little
woman with a sweet face walked up to us out of the bushes and said,
"Are you lovers of the poet?"

I humbly replied that we were. Then she said: "I am Mrs. Miller, and
you are welcome. When you have looked around, come into Mr. Miller's
own room and be refreshed. After that I will read to you from his
writings."

It sounded stagey at first, but the more we knew of this sweet-faced
widow of the poet the less we found about her that was not simple and
sweet and natural.

After wandering around, through the fascinating paths, under the great
cross of a thousand pine trees, among the roses, and flowers that he
had planted with his own hands, we came at last to the little house
that Mrs. Miller had called "The poet's own room," and there were we
refreshed with cool lemonade and cakes. In the littleness of my soul I
wondered when we were to pay for these favors, but the longer we
remained the more was I shamed as I saw that this hospitality was just
the natural expression of a woman, and a beautiful daughter's desire to
extend the hospitality of the dead poet himself, to any who loved his
writings.

There was the bed on which Miller lay for months writing many of his
greatest poems, including the famous "Columbus." There was his
picturesque sombrero, still hanging where he had put it last on the