“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.