WHEN _Tom_, an’ please your honour, got to the shop, there was nobody
in it, but a poor negro girl, with a bunch of white feathers slightly
tied to the end of a long cane, flapping away flies—not killing
them.——’Tis a pretty picture! said my uncle _Toby_—she had suffered
persecution, _Trim_, and had learnt mercy——
——She was good, an’ please your honour, from nature, as well as from
hardships; and there are circumstances in the story of that poor
friendless slut, that would melt a heart of stone, said _Trim;_ and
some dismal winter’s evening, when your honour is in the humour, they
shall be told you with the rest of _Tom_’s story, for it makes a part
of it——