no considerable degree to our geographical knowledge of remote regions. They gave tidings of a river hitherto unknown, the Lena, which flows towards the Nyam-Nyam country in a westerly direction, and is navigable; also of a vast lake with flat shores to the south of this part of the White Nile." After a period of four years, divided between a quiet residence at Cairo and yachting trips to Smyrna, Naples, Rome, Algiers, Tripoli, and other places, Miss Tinné prepared for a journey which was to eclipse all her previous expeditions. "Her plan was to travel from Tripoli to the capital of Fezzan, thence to Kuka in Bornu, and taking a westerly direction make her way by Tschadsee and Wadai, Darfur, and Kordofan to the Nile." Such a journey, Miss Tinné knew, would be attended by great risks. She knew that few travellers attempted to reach Timbuctoo from Algeria, because of the necessity of passing through the territory of the plundering and treacherous Touaregs, but, as we have already seen, Miss Tinné knew nothing of fear-knew nothing, and therefore all the more readily fell into the trap artfully laid for her and-perished. All necessary precautions, however, were taken, and preparations made for the journey. The company numbered fifty in all, of which only three besides herself were Europeans. A start was made on January 29th, 1869, and all went well until, at the beginning of March, the expedition arrived at Sokua. "Here she found, as she believed, a trusty ally in a certain Touareg chief, to whom she had been recommended, named Ik-nu-ken, who promised to escort her himself as far as Ghat. An insurrection breaking out just then in his dominions, he was obliged to absent himself, promising, however, to send her a proper substitute. From all that she had seen and heard of this man, there seemed no reason to accredit him with treacherous intentions; but instead of one escort, two Touareg chiefs appeared, both deputed, so they said, from her friend, both promising to see her in all security to Ghat, and without doubt one having planned to murder her beforehand. This man was an enemy of Ik-nu-ken, not an ally, as he pretended to be, and it is supposed that the massacre and pillage of the caravan were determined as much by revenge as by cupidity." The march had not long been resumed when what was evidently a well-laid plot was put into execution. It is thought that one of her own attendants, Mahomed by name, a Tunisian, conspired with the Touaregs to murder his mistress. "Early in the morning," says Miss Edwards, "a quarrel broke out-and it is supposed intentionally-among the camel-drivers, and, hearing the noise, the young mistress of the caravan hastily quitted her tent to see what she could do in the way of pacification. Her appearance was the signal agreed upon for the massacre. One Touareg first disabled her right hand by a sabre-thrust, in order to prevent her from using her revolver; then, with a rifle ball in the breast, achieved his deadly work. [Another account says that Miss Tinné was twenty-four hours dying, and that during that time no one dared to approach her.] The others rushed on to the slaughter. The three Dutch sailors, her sole European attendants, were next assassinated, and then the plundering of the rich caravan began. The faithful negroes, who adored their kind young mistress, were carried off with the spoil, and the bodies of the victims left unburied on the sands. Thus perished, in the flower of her youth, one of the most enterprising lady travellers, and one of the most courageous women that ever lived." Had Miss Tinné been spared to accomplish this journey in safety, there can be little doubt that she would have been able to realise some of her dreams and aspirations with regard to the amelioration of the enslaved people of the Soudan. But perishing so suddenly and untimely, the rich generous bud of her noble purposes was denied the opportunity of developing into that flower of attained ends which would have been at once the crown and justification of her life. To the superficial onlooker her career may appear impracticable, wild, visionary, fruitless, and what not; but to those who look deeper into the wellsprings of her life, her short history is not without its peculiar significance and beauty. For one possessed of her talents, imagination, courage, and activity to have passed life in the fulfilment of the duties and formalities of Court life would have been nothing short of drudgery, nay slavery, and even death itself. Freedom of every kind, and the conquering of great difficulties, seemed to be necessities of Miss Tinné's nature, and in what other sphere than that of exploration could she have found better scope for the development of her powers? Certainly she might have lent her great strength to more homely duties; but who would care to see the Arabian steed yoked to the coal waggon, or the wild gazelle fastened to the goat-cart, and made the slave of unthinking and brutal children? Let the steed roam the tawny desert sands, or rest under the tent of his Arab master; let the gazelle bound exultingly upon the mountains, and let free strong spirits like Miss Tinné find out the life that suits them best. Her life seems to suggest, at least, that were ladies of position and wealth to shake themselves free from the gilded fetters of empty social customs and unsatisfying pleasures, and to spend their time, wealth, and talents in some honourable and praiseworthy pursuit, they would, at least, emancipate their minds and souls from the curse of an empty and wasted life, if they did not do much to set the down-trodden peoples of the earth free from tyranny and oppression. But to our minds the great lesson of Miss Tinne's life is one which would have become sufficiently apparent had she lived a little longer, viz., that the soul that, true to its own instincts and aspirations, boldly strikes out new paths for itself, finds that not only possibilities of service to the race never dreamed of before open up, but the power and the desire to use those opportunities come with them. Miss Tinné went to Africa with no aim beyond that of exploration, but she was not long before she became the friend and the helper of the slave. CLARISSA'S TANGLED WEB. BY BEATRICE BRISTOWE, Author of "Unforgotten," " Windaway Hill," &c. CHAPTER XXX.-NEARER AND DEARER. Ir was long since John had deceived himself with any idea of a merely brotherly regard for Irene, such as might continue to his life's end, while in another he found a friend yet nearer and dearer. He knew full well that with him this love was supreme, not one among many tranquil affections. But when his eyes rested upon her, when he thought how richly she was endowed with grace, beauty, fascination of manner, which must win for her strong personal admiration, and with talents ensuring by their exercise competence and repute, possibly wealth and fame, and then thought of himself, so plain in person, possessing no shining qualities of any kind, plodding on in a merchant's office with very moderate present remuneration, and only a distant prospect of advancement, he scarcely entertained the thought of even attempting to win her for his own. And if things could only go on as they now were, he should be content-at least, so he thought; so he would try to be. For there was scarcely a day when he had not the hope of seeing her many were the days in which the hope was realised; and always when she met him it was with a bright smile and pleased welcome, and not seldom with some request or little commission to be fulfilled, which brightened the day because done for her. He was made aware of all her affairs; projects, successes, disappointments, failures, the commencement of a picture, its completion, its sale, the amount of remuneration received. And to him she confided much of her inner life her imaginings, thoughts, hopes, fears, griefs, joys. All this was very precious to John, and not lightly to be risked by any attempt to reach a yet higher happiness, which he believed to be unattainable. If only it could last always. But increasingly he felt how likely it was that this would not be. He was quite aware that there were others who regarded the beautiful young artist with more than friendly interest; young men possessing personal and social advantages which he had not, though he found it difficult to believe that the love of any one of them was strong and deep as his own. One comfort he had. On none of her lovers did she bestow any encouragement; her entire demeanour, both in their presence and their absence, suggested that her affections were wholly unengaged. It might be that the love of art which now reigned supreme should continue so to reign; she might remain Irene Laureston always, his near friend, though nothing more And if sc-yes, he would rest not ill-content; he would try to rest. No one knew John's secret; no one suspected it, save Lettie. Child as she was, her great love for her brother gave her insight; but the same love taught her to keep silence. Rose was practical, not imaginative, and very busy. Hilda's thoughts did not condescend to such matters; besides, she affected to consider Miss Laureston as still almost a child. Between these two there existed a greater coolness than ever; for Irene, a few months before, had offended Hilda in a manner she knew not how to forgive or to forget. They had been sitting one day together, no one else present except Mrs. Rivers, lying, as ever, on the sofa. Hilda was writing; six volumes, the works of the Poet Laureate, borrowed from a library, lying beside her desk :-"The Genius of Shakespeare and Tennyson Compared," being the subject of the essay on hand. Lately, poetry had engrossed her whole attention. As Mrs. Rivers had fallen asleep, Irene took up "In Memoriam," and commenced reading, whereupon Miss Rivers handed her the "Poems" opened at "The May Queen," with the remark that "In Memoriam,' to be understood, required a poetic intuition, which Miss Laureston was hardly likely to possess." Then she continued writing, and did not notice that her companion also was engaged with pencil and paper. Presently she laid down her pen. "Miss Rivers, could you kindly help me to understand this passage?" Irene said, looking up from "In Memoriam," which she still held; "to me it seems somewhat obscure." "I thought the work unsuited to your present mental calibre,' replied Hilda. "Which passage is it ?" Then Irene gravely read :— "O light in darkness, right in wrong; O error, faintly grasped by truth. And terror fading into ruth, And growing weakness waxing strong. The yea in nay, the more in less, The several oneness that shall last, "Highly characteristic of the Tennysonian genius," remarked Hilda. "You want it elucidated? It's true meaning is perfectly clear to my own inner consciousness; but all minds have not equal receptivity. I might fail in conveying it to yours." "Perhaps you would read it again and try." "It would be numbered--? I cannot recollect the connection perfectly," asked Hilda, pleased with her docility. "One hundred and thirty-one, I should think," Irene replied, rising to make her escape; "omitted in former editions." "The Roman numerals have puzzled you; one hundred and thirty is the last. But Irene was gone. It was not for some minutes, not until she found the pencilled slip of paper between the leaves, that the truth dawned on Hilda's mind, and then great was her anger-all the greater, because neither to Irene herself, nor to any other, could she complain, without renewing the sense of mortification. Only to John did Irene ever tell the story; to him she told it the same evening, somewhat gleefully. He laughed when she repeated the impromptu parody, and said it was clever; but she saw his sister's discomfiture rather vexed than amused him. Then she, too, felt a little sorry, and said: "John, I will try to put up with Hilda, because she is your sister. I would do much more than that for your sake." "Much more than that for your sake." How often those words came back to John's mind long after they were spoken. How much did they mean? Could it possibly be that friendship was growing into love; and that because she knew him so well, was so assured of his affection, could have a certainty respecting him greater than was possible in regard to a new acquaintance, she was willing to overlook other deficiencies, and to entrust her happiness to his keeping? Sometimes when he pondered the question in the silence of the night, he resolved that he would speak. Once and again, when with her, the impulse to do so had been strong; but the fear of disturbing their present happy relationship, or of defeating his desire by precipitation, still kept him silent. Yet he felt that the moment must come when speak he should. And at last it came, hastened probably by a favourable occasion, and also by increased anxiety; for lately he had twice encountered Irene returning from the Academy, accompanied by Henry Arnold, brother of a friend of hers, a young man of good family and pre |