But Saturday came and, in spite of every effort on Barney's part, he found no one for the service at Bull Crossing next day. There was still a slight hope that one of the officials of the congregation would consent to be a stop-gap for the day.
“I guess I'll have to take that service myself, Margaret,” said Barney laughingly. “Wouldn't the crowd stare? They'd hear the sermon of their lives.”
“It would be a good sermon, Barney,” replied Margaret quietly. “And why should you not say something to the men?”
“Nonsense, Margaret!” cried Barney impatiently. “You know the thing is utterly absurd. What sort of man am I to preach? A gambler, a swearer, and generally bad. They all know me.”
“They know only a part of you, Barney,” said Margaret gently. “God knows all of you, and whatever you have been you are no gambler today, and you are not a bad man.”
“No,” replied Barney slowly, “I am no gambler, nor will I ever be again. But I have been a hard, bad man. For three years I carried hate in my heart. I could not forgive and didn't want to be forgiven. And that, I believe, was the cause of all my badness. But—somehow—I don't deserve it—but I've been awfully well treated. I deserved hell, but I've got a promise of heaven. And I'd be glad to do something for—” He paused abruptly.
“There, you've got your sermon, Barney,” said Margaret.
“What do you mean?”
“'Forgive and ye shall be forgiven.'”
“It's the sermon someone wants to preach to me, but it's not for me to preach. The thing is preposterous. I'll get one of those fellows at the Crossing to take the meeting.”