Before demanding if it were quite true, he lay still awhile and thought about it. He looked at Mother's face, and snuggled his fingers into the fairy foam of her nightgown, but the face and the fairy foam at her throat had not changed in the least. They were just the same as they had been yesterday and the day before and the day before that.
It was very strange. He had supposed that when a little boy is four years old, his life would be somehow—different. That is why he was still in doubt; he was not at all sure about being four years old. He would wake up Mother and then, if he was It, she would make him feel that he was.
Her reassurance, though, was not nearly so satisfying as he had hoped.
"Yes, dear; it's your birthday. Now go to sleep awhile, my pretty."
David lay very still, but he did not go to sleep. By and by he asked rather uneasily:
"What do you do first?"
"What do you mean, little boy?"
"Little? Am I little?"
"Of course you're growing," Mother told him.
But David would not be deceived. Already the suspicion had come to him that there was nothing grand about being four years old. It was not a success; it was a failure, and his one hope now rested in Dr. Redfield, for this was the morning when the Doctor had promised to waylay the little boy.