“A few days after this memorable occurrence, one of a more serious nature happened. My dear young mistress, whose flattering appearance had lately induced her parents to hope that she would recover, suddenly became so ill, that their too sanguine expectations were converted into the most distressing apprehensions. She could not even bear my presence, as I unconsciously disturbed her by my artless song, which had always hitherto diverted her. I was, in consequence, removed from her chamber, and I now passed my time very sorrowfully. Little notice was taken of me, for all the family were too much occupied with my dear mistress. They did not, however, neglect to feed me and clean my cage, to which I was constantly confined. I should have suffered from this restraint, had not the thoughts of my dear mistress rendered me melancholy, and consequently, unfit for any amusement. The place I was removed to, was the little parlour I mentioned to you before. Here the doctors who attended poor Sophia frequently came, to inform her anxious parents how they found her. One day the benevolent physician, who had been most constant in his attendance, came in, and seeing Sophia’s mother, he appeared greatly agitated. She fearfully enquired after her daughter, when the good man, with tears in his eyes, begged her to be composed and prepare for the worst. ‘Your child, dear madam,’ said he, ‘has but a short time to suffer; she will then be as happy as she deserves to be!’ He could add no more, and abruptly quitted the room, leaving the unhappy mother in such distress, as can hardly be imagined, much less described. “I will pass over the mournful scenes that ensued, and briefly inform you, that poor Sophia died that night! I was, as you may imagine, deeply impressed by this sad event, and being still closely confined, and deprived of my accustomed indulgences, I sat mournfully in my cage, without uttering a note. At last, however, the fine weather and my natural cheerfulness prevailed, and I ventured to sing a little; but the sound of my voice seemed to revive the grief of this afflicted family. The mother, in particular, was so much affected, that her children proposed conveying me to some place where I might be more welcome. They consulted together in my presence, (little thinking that I understood them,) and decided that I should be presented to Miss Stanton, the eldest sister of that cruel boy I told you of. I was struck with terror at the name; but as some alleviation of my sorrow and dread, I afterwards heard them expatiate on the amiable qualities of the young lady to whose care they meant to consign me.