"But I know they can; and it wasn't your mother I was thinking of just now, but God."
"But—but you don't think He cares much about it, do you, Chandos? He can't, you know."
"You believe that I care, don't you—at least a little?"
"Well, yes, I do, for you have always been my friend, and helped me out of a scrape, and given me good advice; but—but it's different about God," I said.
"Why is it different? He is your Friend, who cares far more for your welfare than I do, and He is more anxious to see you do well—live a pure, honest, upright life—than I can be; and yet you will not accept the help He alone can give, and by which alone you can conquer this inclination to get into mischief and often do such great wrong."
"God is my Friend?" I repeated. "Look here, Chandos, if I could believe that—well, I don't know what I should do, but somehow I should want to be different. I almost wish it could be true."
"It is true, Stewart, as true as truth, as true as you and I are standing here. I wish you would believe that God feels a personal interest in you, as much as though you were the only schoolboy in the world."
"I wish I could. But somehow, Chandos, it seems so strange—too wonderful, you know, to be true, that God—the great God who made heaven and earth—can care for a harum-scarum lot like us."
"Yes, it is wonderful; but you know the Lord Jesus Christ cared so much for this harum-scarum world and all the people in it that He was content to die—to lay down His life to bring them to God."
"Yes, I've heard something about it in church; and since I've been trying to do the square thing and write bits of the sermon, I've heard about it there too; but then it never seemed to me that it could be for boys. God the friend of boys like me? Why, look here, Chandos; if the governor was to proclaim himself my friend it would be an honour, you know; but look at the difference! I take it that you mean I could go and tell God about every little scrape and trouble I got into, and He would help me out of it?"