There was an instant's pause, then putting disagreeable thoughts from her mind, Aggie turned to Zoie with renewed enthusiasm. “We must get down to business,” she said, “we'll begin on the baby's outfit at once.” “Its what?” queried Zoie. “Its clothes,” explained Aggie. “Oh, what fun!” exclaimed Zoie, and she clapped her hands merrily like a very small child. A moment later she stopped with sudden misgiving. “But, Aggie,” she said fearfully, “suppose Alfred shouldn't come back after I've got the baby? I'd be a widow with a child.” “Oh, he's sure to come back!” answered Aggie, with a confident air. “He'll take the first train, home.” “I believe he will,” assented Zoie joyfully. All her clouds were again dispelled. “Aggie,” she cried impulsively, “you are a darling. You have just saved my life.” And she clasped her arms so tightly around Aggie's neck that her friend was in danger of being suffocated. Releasing herself Aggie continued with a ruffled collar and raised vanity: “You can write him an insinuating letter now and then, just to lead up to the good news gradually.” Zoie tipped her small head to one side and studied her friend thoughtfully. “Do you know, Aggie,” she said, with frank admiration, “I believe you are a better liar than I am.” “I'm NOT a liar,” objected Aggie vehemently, “at least, not often,” she corrected. “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. CHAPTER XI