University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
THE EDITOR OF THE “WEEKLY MAMMOTH.”

There was about Mr. Sansoucy that cheering and
inspiring atmosphere, which often has so powerful an
effect upon those who are thrown into it, before a word
has been spoken, or any sympathy offered. It was a
cordial to Ellie, his simple presence; and again she
experienced that singular and indefinable sensation, which
had seized her upon their first interview, some days before.
It seemed to her that there was some hidden identity
between her own character and that of the person in whose
presence she now was; and his smile invigorated and
restored her more than the cheerful fire—the contact of
his hand raised her drooping spirits more than even the
new-born hope which struggled at her heart.

As the color came back to her cheeks, and her eyes
made the circuit, absently, of the apartment, thence
returning to dwell, full of trust and confidence, upon his

face; Mr. Sansoucy smiled again, and relinquishing her
hand, attacked the fire vigorously with the poker.

“Faith! I believe you were going to be frozen down
there, my young friend,” he said: “but now you are
not so badly off, are you? Don't judge of my hospitality
by the stumbles you made in coming to the fire over
these volumes. They are a set of rascals who come to
me to be reviewed in the “Weekly Mammoth”— which I
venture to say, is an animal you know nothing about.'

As he uttered these words, Mr. Sansoucy busied himself
in bringing forth from an escrutoire, a bottle of wine
which he uncorked.

“The Mammoth, little one, is a wild animal,” he continued
pouring out a glassful of the wine, “which is nursed
by `devils' technicaliy so called,—cradled in ink, and let
loose periodically to devour the public, or their purses,
which amounts nearly to the same thing. Of this savage
animal I am the keeper and the master!”

Having achieved this succinct description of the Journal
which he edited, Mr. Sansoucy forced Ellie to swallow
the glass of wine he had poured out, and thereafter two
more glasses.

The child drank the wine almost mechanically, with the
same silent look — as if, indeed, she had abdicated all
exercise of her own will, implicitly relying upon that of
another, and a stronger. She did well, in this instance,
at least; for, before many moments had passed, her cheeks
recovered their color, her stiffened limbs relaxed, and
bending down, the tears which had been gathering in her
eyes, fell, relieving her overburdened heart. She had

returned again to life, from that chill land which is the
boundary separating this world from the unexplored
domain beyond.

Mr. Sansoucy looked at her fixedly, and wondering
at the sweetness and goodness of the child's countenance,
said softly,

“What is your name, little one?”

“Ellen Lacklitter, sir,” replied Ellie, looking up
through her tears.

“Ah, Ellen is it? A pretty name. You did not give
me your card,” he said, smiling, “as I gave you mine.
But I'm glad you came—you know me now—my name is
Sansoucy—I am a literary machine, and dreadfully mercenary—a
machine which moves a pen only where fuel in
the shape of money is supplied. See there what an excellent
description I am giving you, while you, poor little
one, are almost too cold to understand me! Let me
come to business now—you must have wanted a friend—
speak and tell me if you do. You must, indeed, on such
a day as this—the wind is freezing, and faith! I think it
is cutting my window panes!”

Mr. Sansoucy had been assiduously working at the fire
during this speech, and had supplied it with various
journals, which it seemed to relish very much indeed, and
devour with deep delight. Having two or three times
just escaped setting the chimney on fire, he drew back
and sat down—coming to the end of his work and his
speech at the same moment.

The child hesitated a moment, stole a timid glance at

his face, which seemed to encourage her, and said, in a
faltering voice:

“Uncle Joe's very sick, sir—and I thought—as you
said I might—I could not get any work—oh! sir, uncle
is so sick and we are so unhappy!”

“Uncle Joe?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Joe Lacklitter, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” faltered Ellie.

“I know Joe Lacklitter.”

“Oh! do you, sir?”

“Yes, indeed, I do.”

“He is very sick, and I love him so, sir;—oh! it is
so hard.”

Mr. Sansoucy was silent.

“I have tried to do all I could, and I have prayed to
God to help us, and give us comfort, and he has been very
good to us. But I couldn't get some work I expected—
and the snow came on, you know, sir—and—and—we
have no—”

Ellie could not finish, her voice quite broke down, and
covering her face, she cried, for some moments, silently.

Mr. Sansoucy laid back in his chair, and assuming a
bold and Spartan expression, endeavored to catch a
glimpse of his face in the mirror, over the fire-place, as
though to assure himself that he looked heroic and composed.
Having apparently satisfied himself on this point,
he took out his pocket-handkerchief, and blew his nose
with a steady and graceful hand; after which performance
he looked grander than ever, and uttered an oracular:

“Hum!”

The child suppressed her emotion, and taking away her
hands gazed into the fire, thereby permitting the light to
illuminate the dew-drops, which remained where they had
fallen, on her cheeks.

Mr. Sansoucy gracefully pulled up his collar, which was
already sawing his ears, and said,

“How did Uncle Joe fall sick?”

“Carrying newspapers, early in the cold morning,” said
Ellie, raising her eyes, still filled with that extraordinary
softness and sweetness which had struck the journalist
before, “he was always up and out before day-break, sir,
and it often made him unwell, but never much sick. But he
was taken with a fever, the other day, and he couldn't go
any more.”

“A fever?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who carries the papers?”

“I don't know, sir. Charley sold some,” faltered Ellie.

“Charley?”

“Yes, sir; but he was too little—he is my brother, sir—
and he hadn't any shoes, and cried because the pavement
was so cold.

“Cried!” said Mr. Sansoucy, austerely.

“Oh, sir,—he's such a little boy—and when he came
home, his face was all stained with the papers.”

“What! his tears had been wiped away with the
journals.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ellen,” said Mr. Sansoucy, reclining in his chair, and

looking solemn, “this is a bad account of Charley. The
boy who wipes his eyes with the morning papers of subscribers
is on the high road to the —. Well! that is
not to the purpose. Is this all you have had to live on,
Ellie?”

“Oh, no, sir; I can work, and—and—we had some
things which I got some money for.”

“Pawned!” exclaimed Mr. Sansoucy.

“Yes, sir,” faltered Ellie.

“What?”

“It was—only—I didn't want it—”

“Your shawl or cloak, as I live!” cried Mr. Sansoucy,
bounding in his chair. “What scoundrel took away your
shawl?”

“Nobody! that was nothing—I am not cold—and oh,
sir, if uncle was only warm and comfortable, I wouldn't
care!”

Ellie's voice began to falter again, as she thought of her
sick uncle, and every word seemed to struggle with a sob