"I've
never lied to Jimmy in all my life." She drew herself up with
conscious pride. "And Jimmy has NEVER LIED TO ME."
"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.
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