If He cares anything at all about you, why didn't He
help you to-day? You asked Him to."
Tip sat down on a log by the side of the road, and gave himself up for a
little to Satan's guidance, and the wicked voice went on,--
"Now, you see, you've been cheated. You've tried hard for a whole month
to _be_ somebody, and no one thinks any more of you than they did before,
and never will. Your mother scolds just as much, and your home looks just
as dismal, and Kitty is just as hateful, and the respectable boys in the
village have nothing to do with you. You might just as well lounge around
and have a good time. Nobody expects you to be good, or will let you,
when you want to be."
Softly there came another voice knocking at Tip's heart. At first he
would not notice it, but it _would_ be heard.
"What of all that?" it said; "suppose nobody cares for you, or helps you
here. Jesus died, you know, and He is your friend. You _know_ that is not
a humbug; you _know_ He has heard you when you knelt down and prayed. He
has helped you.
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