“Them's my orders, sir,” was Joseph's invariable reply, and he was usually in a position to produce documentary confirmation of his statement. The two men--master and servant--had grown so accustomed to the military discipline of a besieged garrison that it did not seem to occur to them to question the doctor's orders. Nestorius--small, stout, and silent--was a frequenter of the sick-room, by desire of the invalid. After laboriously toiling up the shallow stairs--a work entailing huge effort of limbs and chin--he would stump gravely into the room without any form of salutation. There are some great minds above such trifles. His examination of the patient was a matter of some minutes. Then he would say, “Bad case,” with the peculiar mechanical diction that was his--the words that Meredith had taught him on the evening of his arrival. After making his diagnosis Nestorius usually proceeded to entertain the patient with a display of his treasures for the time being. These were not in themselves of great value: sundry pebbles, a trouser-button, two shells, and a glass stopper, formed, as it were, the basis of his collection, which was increased or diminished according to circumstances. Some of these he named; others were exhibited with a single adjective, uttered curtly, as between men who required no great tale of words wherewith to understand each other. A few were considered to be of sufficient value and importance to tell their own story and make their way in the world thereupon. He held these out with a face of grave and contemplative patronage. “Never, Nestorius,” Meredith would say gravely, “in the course of a long and varied experience, have I seen a Worcester-sauce stopper of such transcendent beauty.” Sometimes Nestorius clambered on to the bed, when the mosquito-curtains were up, and rested from his labours--a small curled-up form, looking very comfortable. And then, when his mother's soft voice called him, he was wont to gather up his belongings and take his departure. On the threshold he always paused, finger in mouth, to utter a valedictory “Bad case” before making his way downstairs with a shadowy, mystic smile. Kind neighbours called, and well-meaning but mistaken dissenting missionaries left religious works of a morbid nature, eminently suitable to the sick-bed; but Joseph, Marie, and Nestorius were the only three who had free access to the quiet room. And all the while the rain fell--night and day, morning, noon, and evening--as if the flood-gates had been left open by mistake. “Sloobrious, no doubt,” said Joseph, “but blamed depressing.” And he shook his head at the lowering sky with a tolerant smile, which was his way of taking Providence to task. “Do y' know what I would like, missis?” he asked briskly of Marie one evening. “No.”