cottages near by and her re-appearance waited for. Half-an-hour elapsed, but still she did not appear. At last, two of the women went into the room to see if any harm had befallen her. She was not there; but a newly written letter was upon the table beside the inkstand. They took it up and read it. It was addressed to “Miss Wilson, care of F. Wilberforce, Melbourne,” and ran as follows:—
Dear Alice,
I have no one to console with, no one to confide in. You are not here. My best friend, Harry, is gone. I find myself in a strange land amongst strange people. I cannot bear it any longer. I know they are good people and would love me and be kind to me, but the one I want is not amongst them. Poor sister, how often I have thought of you, and recalled the troubles you had when we worked together in Sydney trying to earn a crust of bread. And how often I have thought of your struggle trying to earn that crust, and the misery and suffering it caused you. I know society maligned you. I know how, when it had degraded you and nearly maddened you, it turned round and spat upon you and called you its prostitute. But, Alice, I think you no prostitute. I think you a martyr. Oh, how I wish every woman were as noble and independent as you, poor girl! I often wonder how it is that I did not sell my pleasures to lascivious hypocrites as you have had to do, my poor sister. Was it because I had not the courage? Or was it that I loved Harry too well to let the pangs of hunger banish my virtuous regard for him? Perhaps it was both causes combined. However, he is dead now. My life's hope is no more. The cruel world is black and cheerless. It has at last broken my poor weak heart; and I feel the time has come when I must bid you all good-bye. Remember me to your good friend and future husband, Fred Wilberforce, and tell him I once again thank him for his many kindnesses to Harry and me. Give my love to every Social Pioneer and all who are working for the truer humanity. And tell them my last hopes are with them and with their glorious cause. And take the last farewell wishes from
Your loving sister in misfortune,
Hypatia.
When the women had read the letter, they hastened into the next room. There they saw the poor broken-hearted girl lying on the rough couch. They leaned over her, and felt her to make sure she still lived. But they felt the cold clay,
Hypatia was dead!
Just as the gardener plucks the choicest flowers and leaves the others to bloom without them, so Nature takes from us Her choicest flowers and leaves us to mourn their loss. Our brightest hopes leave us just as success seems sure. Our friends forsake us just as we learn to love them. Our martyrs sacrifice their lives unto us; and then, when it is too late, we regret them, and build our prosperity on their misery.
Harry Holdfast and his friends had sacrificed themselves for humanity.
They had consecrated their lives to the martyr's cause of Freedom.
The Workers were at last emancipated!
Andrade & Co., Printers, 213 Russell Street. Melbourne.
