X. For a Lady's Honour

Are you going to Trinity convocation tomorrow?" asked Dr. Bulling of Iola.

They were sitting in what Iola called her studio. A poor little room it was, but suggesting in every detail the artistic taste of its occupant. Its adornments, the luxurious arrangement of cushions in the cosey corner, the prints upon the walls, and the books on the little table, spoke of a pathetic attempt to reproduce the surroundings of luxurious art without the large outlay that art demands. At one side of the room stood a piano with music lying carelessly about. In another corner was Iola's guitar, which she seldom used now except when intimate friends gathered for one of the little suppers she loved to give. Then she took it up to sing the mammy songs of her childhood. On the side opposite to that on which the piano stood was a little fireplace. It was the fireplace that had determined the choice of the room.

As Dr. Bulling asked his question Iola's lace lit up with a sudden splendour.

"Yes, of course," she cried.

"And why 'of course'?" inquired the doctor.

"Why? Because a great friend of mine is to receive his degree and his gold medal."

"And who is that, pray?"

"Mr. Boyle."

"Oh, you know him? Clever chap, they say. Can't say I know him. Have seen him a few times in the hospital with Trent. Struck me as rather crude. From the country, some place, isn't he?"

"Yes," replied Iola, with ever so slight a hesitation, "he is from the country, where I met him five--yes, it is actually five--years ago. So you see he is quite an old friend. And as for being crude, I think you can hardly call him that. Of course, he is not one of society's darlings, a patron of art, and a rising member of his profession as yet"--this with a little bow to her visitor--"but some day he will be great. And, besides, he is very nice."

"Of that I have no doubt," said the doctor, "seeing he is a friend of yours. But how are you going? Some friends of mine are to be there and will be glad to call for you." The doctor could hardly prevent a tone of condescension, almost of patronage, in his voice.

"You are very kind," said Iola, with just enough reserve in her manner to make the doctor conscious of his tone, "but I am going with friends."

"Friends?" inquired the doctor. "And who, may I ask?" There was an almost rude familiarity in his tone, but Iola only smiled at him the more sweetly.

"Oh, very dear friends, and very old friends, and friends of Mr. Boyle. In fact, his brother, a theological student, and a Miss Robertson. I think you have met her. She is a nurse in the General Hospital."

"Nurse Robertson?" said Bulling. "Oh, yes, I know her. Pretty much of a saint, isn't