"I do!" sobbed Jimmieboy.
"Do you, really?" cried the Imp, gleefully, "Real weeny, teeny small."
"Yes," said Jimmieboy, a tear trickling down his cheek.
"Then it's all right," sang the Imp, dancing a lovely jig to show how glad he felt. "Because we are always the way we feel. If you feel sick, you are sick. If you feel good, you are good, and if you feel sorry, you are sorry, and so, don't you see, if you feel small you are small. The only point is, now, do you feel small enough to get into this room?"
"I think I do," returned Jimmieboy, brightening up considerably, because his one great desire now was not to be a big grown-up man, like his papa, who could sharpen lead-pencils, and go out of doors in snow-storms, but to visit the Imp in his own quarters. "Yes," he repeated, "I think I do feel small enough to get in there."
"You've got to know," returned the Imp. "The trouble with you, I believe, is that you think in the wrong places. This isn't a matter of thinking; it's a matter of knowing."
"Well, then, I know I'm small enough," said Jimmieboy. "The only thing is, how am I to get up there?"
"I'll fix that," replied the Imp, with a happy smile. "I'll let down the wires, and you can come up on them."
Here he began to unwind two thin green silk-covered wires that Jimmieboy had not before noticed, and which were coiled about two small spools fastened on the back of the door.
"I can't climb," said Jimmieboy, watching the operation with interest.