Positive unhappiness, Mr. Edgar often experienced.  Occasional losses, careful and shrewd as he always was, were inevitable.  These fretted him greatly.  To lose a thousand dollars, instead of gaining, as was pleasantly believed, some sixty or seventy, was a shower of cold water upon his ardent love of accumulation:  and he shivered painfully under the infliction.  The importunities of friends who needed money, and to whom it was unsafe to lend it, were also a source of no small annoyance.  And, moreover, there was little of the heart’s warm sunshine at home.  As Mr. Edgar had thought more of laying up wealth for his children than giving them the true riches of intellect and heart, ill weeds had sprung up in their minds.  He had not loved them with an unselfish love, and he received not a higher affection than he had bestowed.  Their prominent thought, in regard to him, seemed ever to be the obtaining of some concession to their real or imaginary wants; and, if denied these, they reacted upon him in anger, sullenness, or complaint.

Oh, no!  Mr. Edgar was not happy.  Few gleams of sunshine lay across his path.  Life to him, in his own bitter words, uttered after some keen disappointment, had “proved a failure.”  And yet he continued eager for gain; would cut as deep, exact as much from those who had need of his money in their business, as ever.  The measure of per centage was the measure of his satisfaction.

One day a gentleman said to him—­

“Mr. Edgar, I advised a young mechanic who has been in business for a short time, and who has to take notes for his work, to call on you for the purpose of getting them cashed.  He has no credit in bank, and is, therefore, compelled to go upon the street for money.  Most of his work is taken by one of the safest houses in the city; his paper is, therefore, as good as any in market.  Deal as moderately with him as you can.  He knows little about these matters, or where to go for the accommodation he needs.”

“Is he an industrious and prudent young man?” inquired Mr. Edgar, caution and cupidity at once excited.

“He is.”

“What’s his name?”

“Blakewell.”

“Oh, I know him.  Very well; send him along, and if his paper is good, I’ll discount it.”

“You’ll find it first-rate,” said the gentleman.

“How much shall I charge him?” This was Mr. Edgar’s first thought, so soon as he was alone.  Even as he asked himself the question, the young mechanic entered.

“You take good paper, sometimes?” said the latter, in a hesitating manner.

The countenance of Mr. Edgar became, instantly, very grave.

“Sometimes I do,” he answered, with assumed indifference.

“I have a note of Leyden & Co.’s that I wish discounted,” said Blakewell.

“For how much?”

“Three hundred dollars—­six months;” and he handed Mr. Edgar the note.

“I don’t like over four months’ notes,” remarked the money-lender, coldly.  Then he asked, “What rate of interest do you expect to pay?”