In a letter to her friend Mrs. Clark, of Portland, she thus refers to this book: 

I long to have it doing good.  I never had such desires about anything in my life; and I never sat down to write without first praying that I might not be suffered to write anything that would do harm, and that, on the contrary, I might be taught to say what would do good.  And it has been a great comfort to me that every word of praise I ever have received from others concerning it has been “it will do good,” and this I have had from so many sources that amid much trial and sickness ever since its publication, I have had rays of sunshine creeping in now and then to cheer and sustain me.

To the same friend, just bereft of her two children, she writes a few months later: 

Is it possible, is it possible that you are made childless?  I feel distressed for you, my dear friend; I long to fly to you and weep with you; it seems as if I must say or do something to comfort you.  But God only can help you now, and how thankful I am for a throne of grace and power where I can commend you, again and again, to Him who doeth all things well.

I never realise my own affliction in the loss of my children as I do when death enters the house of a friend.  Then I feel that I can’t have it so. But why should I think I know better than my Divine Master what is good for me, or good for those I love!  Dear Carrie,’! trust that in this hour of sorrow you have with you that Presence, before which alone sorrow and sighing flee away. God is left; Christ is left; sickness, accident, death can not touch you here.  Is not this a blissful thought?...  As I sit at my desk my eye is attracted by the row of books before me, and what a comment on life are their very titles:  “Songs in the Night,” “Light on Little Graves,” “The Night of Weeping,” “The Death of Little Children,” “The Folded Lamb,” “The Broken Bud,” these have strayed one by one into my small enclosure, to speak peradventure a word in season unto my weariness.  And yet, dear Carrie, this is not all of life.  You and I have tasted some of its highest joys, as well as its deepest sorrows, and it has in reserve for us only just what is best for us.  May sorrow bring us both nearer to Christ!  I can almost fancy my little Eddy has taken your little Maymee by the hand and led her to the bosom of Jesus.  How strange our children, our own little infants, have seen Him in His glory, whom we are only yet longing for and struggling towards!

If it will not frighten you to own a Unitarian book, there is one called “Christian Consolation” by Rev. A. P. Peabody, that I think you would find very profitable.  I see nothing, or next to nothing, Unitarian in it, while it is full of rich, holy experience.  One sermon on “Contingent Events and Providence” touches your case exactly.