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.