"Isn't that nice," sniffed Zoie and she pretended to be searching for
her pocket-handkerchief.
But Aggie did not see her. She was glancing at the clock.
"I must go now," she said. And she started toward the door.
"But, Aggie----" protested Zoie, unwilling to be left alone.
"I'll run in again at tea time," promised Aggie.
"I don't mind the DAYS," whined Zoie, "but when NIGHT comes I just MUST
have somebody's arms around me."
"Zoie!" gasped Aggie, both shocked and alarmed.
"I can't help it," confessed Zoie; "the moment it gets dark I'm just
scared stiff."
"That's no way for a MOTHER to talk," reproved Aggie.
"A mother!" exclaimed Zoie, horrified at the sudden realisation that
this awful appellation would undoubtedly pursue her for the rest of
her life. "Oh, don't call me that," she pleaded. "You make me feel a
thousand years old."
"Nonsense," laughed Aggie, and before Zoie could again detain her she
was out of the room.
When the outside door had closed behind her friend, Zoie gazed about
the room disconsolately, but her depression was short-lived. Remembering
Aggie's permission about the letter, she ran quickly to the writing
table, curled her small self up on one foot, placed a brand new pen in
the holder, then drew a sheet of paper toward her and, with shoulders
hunched high and her face close to the paper after the manner of a
child, she began to pen the first of a series of veiled communications
that were ultimately to fill her young husband with amazement.