t had occurred.

When they reached the Sylvester farm that morning grandmother went
indoors with Mrs. Sylvester, and the old Squire proceeded to the barn.
All was very dark and still there, and it was some moments before he
discovered Rufus; the man was sitting on a heckling block at the far
dark end of the barn, huddled down, with his head bowed in his hands.

"Good morning, neighbor!" the old Squire said cheerily. "A fine Sabbath
morning. Spring never looked more promising for us."

Rufus neither stirred nor answered. The old Squire drew near and laid
his hand gently on his shoulder.

"Is it something you could tell me about?" he asked.

Rufus groaned and raised two dreary eyes from his hands. "Oh, I can't!
I'm 'shamed. It's nothin' I can tell!" he cried out miserably and then
burst into fearful sobs.

"Don't let me ask, then, unless you think it might do you good," the old
Squire said.

"Nothin'll ever do me any good again!" Rufus cried. "I'm beyond it,
Squire. I'm a lost soul. The door of mercy is closed on me, Squire. I've
committed the unpardonable sin!"

The old Squire saw that no effort to cheer Rufus that did not go to the
root of his misery would avail. Sitting down beside him, he said:

"A great many of us sometimes fear that we have committed the
unpardonable sin. But there is one sure way of knowing whether a person
has committed it or not. I once knew a man who in a drunken brawl had
killed another. He was convicted of manslaughter, served his term in
prison, then went back to his farm and worked hard and well for ten
years. One spring that former crime began to weigh on his mind. He
brooded on it and finally became convinced that he had committed the sin
for which there can be no forgiveness. He wanted desperately to atone
for what he had done, and the idea got possession of his mind that since
he had taken a human life the only way for him was to take his own
life--a life for a life. The next morning they found that he had hanged
himself in his barn.

"The young minister who was asked to officiate at the funeral declined
to do so on doctrinal grounds; and the burial was about to take place
without even a prayer at the grave when a stranger hurriedly approached.
He was a celebrated divine who had heard the circumstances of the man's
death and who had journeyed a hundred miles to offer his services at the
burial.

"'My good friends,' the stranger began, 'I have come to rectify a great
mistake