Then to join their little community were coming Leigh Hunt and his wife—­Leigh Hunt, who had lain in prison for the right of free thought and free speech.  What a joy to greet and welcome such a man to their home!

And so Shelley, blithe and joyous, sailed away to meet his friend.  But Shelley never came back to his wife and baby boy.  A few days after, the waves cast his body up on the beach, and you know the rest—­how the faithful Trelawney and Byron made the funeral-pyre and reduced the body to ashes.

Mary was twenty-six years old then.  She continued to live—­to live only in the memory of her Shelley and with the firm thought in her mind that they would be united again.  She seemed to exist but to care for her boy, and to do as best she could the work that Shelley had left undone.

The boy grew into a fine youth, and was as devoted to his mother as she was to him.  The title of the estate with all its vast wealth descended to him, and together she lived out her days, tenderly cared for to the last, dying in her son’s arms, aged fifty-four.

She has told us that the first sixteen years of her life were spent in waiting for her Shelley, eight years she lived with him in divinest companionship, and twenty-eight years she waited and worked to prepare herself to rejoin him.

* * * * *

SO HERE ENDETH “LITTLE JOURNEYS TO THE HOMES OF FAMOUS WOMEN,” BEING VOLUME TWO OF THE SERIES, AS WRITTEN BY ELBERT HUBBARD:  EDITED AND ARRANGED BY FRED BANN; BORDERS AND INITIALS BY ROYCROFT ARTISTS AND PRODUCED BY THE ROYCROFTERS, AT THEIR SHOPS, WHICH ARE IN EAST AURORA, ERIE COUNTY, NEW YORK, MCMXXII