In the slight laugh with which Ned Chester met this assertion was conveyed a suddenly-born reproach against society for having overlooked such superlative talent as he possessed. "I was taught in no school." Adding proudly, "What I know, I picked up myself." Arthur Temple corrected himself, "In the school of nature." "May be." "What are you?" "A shepherd--at present." "You have not been always a shepherd." "Oh, no;" with an assumption of having seen considerably better times and of moving in a much better position. "What makes you a shepherd, then?" "A man must live." "I beg your pardon," said Arthur, with a sensitive flush. "Are you in Mr. Fitzherbert's employment?" Mr. Fitzherbert was the name of the squatter for whose home station he was bound, with letters of introduction. "Yes," replied Ned Chester. "I have come on a visit to him. Can you direct me to his place?" "Over the hill yonder you will see a wagon track. It will take you straight to the house." "Thank you." Arthur, about to depart, suddenly bethought himself. The musician was poor--was a shepherd from necessity. He took his purse from his pocket; a bank-note fluttered in his fingers. He held it towards Ned. Under ordinary circumstances Ned would have had no hesitation in accepting the gratuity, but as his eyes met the earnest eyes of Arthur Temple, a happy inspiration inspired him to refuse it; it was unaccountable, but it happened so. Ned turned his head from the temptation. "I beg your pardon," said Arthur Temple, his face flushing again; "I had no intention of hurting your feelings. Good day." "Good day." Arthur Temple rode slowly off, with many a backward glance at the recumbent form of the musical shepherd--glances of which Ned Chester was perfectly cognisant, but of which he took no apparent notice. Before he was out of earshot, Arthur heard the tin whistle at work once more. "A genius," thought he, "and a gentleman by instinct. I am sorry I offered him money."