Their first baby died when he was eleven months old, but another beautiful boy came to take his place, named after two friends, Warren Horsford, but familiarly called “Rennie.”  He was an uncommonly bright child, and Mrs. Hunt was passionately fond and proud of him.  Life seemed full of pleasures.  She dressed handsomely, and no wish of her heart seemed ungratified.

Suddenly, like a thunder-bolt from a clear sky, the happy life was shattered.  Major Hunt was killed Oct. 2, 1863, while experimenting in Brooklyn, with a submarine gun of his own invention.  The young widow still had her eight-year-old boy, and to him she clung more tenderly than ever, but in less than two years she stood by his dying bed.  Seeing the agony of his mother, and forgetting his own even in that dread destroyer, diphtheria, he said, almost at the last moment, “Promise me, mamma, that you will not kill yourself.”

She promised, and exacted from him also a pledge that if it were possible, he would come back from the other world to talk with his mother.  He never came, and Mrs. Hunt could have no faith in spiritualism, because what Rennie could not do, she believed to be impossible.

For months she shut herself into her own room, refusing to see her nearest friends.  “Any one who really loves me ought to pray that I may die, too, like Rennie,” she said.  Her physician thought she would die of grief; but when her strong, earnest nature had wrestled with itself and come off conqueror, she came out of her seclusion, cheerful as of old.  The pictures of her husband and boy were ever beside her, and these doubtless spurred her on to the work she was to accomplish.

Three months after Rennie’s death, her first poem, Lifted Over, appeared in the Nation:—­

 “As tender mothers, guiding baby steps,
 When places come at which the tiny feet
 Would trip, lift up the little ones in arms
 Of love, and set them down beyond the harm,
 So did our Father watch the precious boy,
 Led o’er the stones by me, who stumbled oft
 Myself, but strove to help my darling on: 
 He saw the sweet limbs faltering, and saw
 Rough ways before us, where my arms would fail;
 So reached from heaven, and lifting the dear child,
 Who smiled in leaving me, He put him down
 Beyond all hurt, beyond my sight, and bade
 Him wait for me!  Shall I not then be glad,
 And, thanking God, press on to overtake!”

The poem was widely copied, and many mothers were comforted by it.  The kind letters she received in consequence were the first gleam of sunshine in the darkened life.  If she were doing even a little good, she could live and be strong.