The Christmas rush came on the Higgledy Piggledies with such force that the fright about little Philip was soon banished from all their minds.

“I may have been mistaken about Miss Fitchet,” Ursula confessed. “That woman I saw may not have been she. I dread her so that I can’t help thinking about her. I may have fancied a resemblance.”

“So you may,” said Josie solemnly. “Anyhow you have not been worried by her and the chances are she will never turn up again, even if the person you saw was Miss Fitchet.”

With the help of Captain Lonsdale, Josie had come to the conclusion that the dreaded nurse had been in Dorfield, but for what purpose the detective put on the case had not been able to discover. At any rate she had left in a day or so and had not returned.

“Probably she was here just to satisfy the curiosity of herself and her employer,” Josie decided. “I hope she will stay away now.”

The girl detective said nothing to Ursula about the information gained by the police concerning Fitchet. It was meager and not very satisfying and if Ursula had begun to feel that she had been mistaken and had only fancied she had seen the woman, so much the better for Ursula. Certainly the trained nurse had a perfect right to visit Dorfield and even to go heavily veiled if she had a mind to.

Josie regretted, in a way, that Ursula had so entirely cut herself off from Louisville and her girlhood friends. She had, in a measure, flitted from her old home and left the situation in the hands of an unscrupulous man. No doubt he was making the most of the power he had thereby gained.

“Suppose letters for you come to Mr. Cheatham. What directions did you leave about forwarding them?” she asked Ursula.

“It would do no good to leave directions. Mr. Cheatham would see to it that nothing I want would ever reach me. There is no way to get satisfaction of my stepfather. I realized that and so I left. If I can just be allowed to keep my darlings with me and bring them up without his contaminating presence, that is all I ask,” said Ursula.

“In what way could he contaminate the boys?”

Ursula considered—and answered:

“In the way a wicked person could influence impressionable children—by making fun of high ideals; mocking at religion; applauding any clever evasion of the truth and then flying into a rage at the slightest excuse and whipping the boys if they happen to do something that annoyed him for the time being, although that same action might at a former period have brought forth commendation. I have heard him, in all seriousness, tell my little brothers that the greatest crime of all was to break the eleventh commandment, which is: ‘Thou shalt not get found out.’ There is a sturdiness about Ben that usually resisted his influence, still he is nothing but a little boy and was not always proof against Mr. Cheatham’s wiles and cleverness. As for poor little Philip, he actually was fond of the man at times and I believe Mr. Cheatham had a spark of affection for him, but nothing could be worse than to have such a man care for you. He is dishonorable, unscrupulous and vacillating in everything but villainy.”

“I thought you said both of the boys hated and feared him.”

“So they did usually, but Philip is such a baby and an ice cream cone had a marvelous effect on the poor kiddy—that and a few gentle joking words.”

“Have you never communicated with any friends in Louisville since you left?”

“I have very few friends,” and Ursula flushed painfully. “I have for so many years been so taken up with my sick mother and the children, and then Mr. Cheatham has in some underhand way cut me off from what intimates I might have had. The Trasks, at Peewee Valley, are the only real friends I own.”

“And the Trasks—have you written them?”

“No. You see I knew Mr. Cheatham would take it for granted they would keep in touch with me and would worm out of them all they knew concerning me and so I simply could not put them in the uncomfortable position of having connived with me in leaving as I did.”

“Is Mrs. Trask a young woman?”

“About fifty, I think.” “Any children?”

“Two—a daughter and a son.”

“Are they about your age?”

“Anita is my age and Teddy is several years older.”

“Do you think it is quite fair to keep your friends in ignorance of your whereabouts?”

“I don’t know, Josie. I acted for the best, I felt, at the time. Now I don’t know.”

“Put yourself in the place of your friends,” suggested Josie. “How would you like it if Anita Trask were to be in trouble and needing a friend and she did not call on you?”

“Oh, but she has her mother and father and her brother!”

“Certainly, and so had you at one time, but she might lose them and have nobody left but you to help her. Would you not have been willing to share to the last crumb and drop with her?”

“Indeed I would have, or with any member of the family!”

“Exactly! And don’t you see that by trying to save them worry and annoyance you have, in a measure, caused them bitter sorrow and trouble?” Josie’s tone was a little stern.

“I know it—I know it, but not so much trouble as they would have had, had Mr. Cheatham been given any cause for complaint against them. He is a terrible man.”

“I believe you exaggerate his power for evil. He may want to be a terrible man, but I can’t see what he could do to the Trasks if you should communicate with them and let them know you are well and, we might add, happy.”

“Indeed we might, Josie, thanks to you and my other wonderful friends here in Dorfield. If you think it best I’ll write to Mrs. Trask this very night. I always saw them on Christmas, and now at least I can write to them so the letter will reach them before that day and reassure them. I know I am obsessed with fear of Mr. Cheatham and what he might be able to accomplish in the way of harming us. I must get over the feeling.”

“You certainly must! Remember there is a perfectly good law in this land of the free and home of the brave, and a fairly good police force to carry out the law. There is nothing Cheatham can do to you, either, for that matter. You tell me he was not appointed your guardian?”

“No, my father appointed Uncle Ben executor of his will and guardian in case my mother should marry again, but Mother was influenced by Mr. Cheatham to dispute Uncle Ben’s rights to dictate to us and so Uncle Ben left the matter in her hands. If Uncle Ben would only come back!”

“Well, suppose he does come back—has come back, in fact. How under Heaven would he find his wards, if they go off and run a tea room in a quiet little spot like Dorfield?”

Ursula wrote to her friends at Peewee Valley that same evening, giving them a detailed account of the happenings to herself and small brothers, begging their forgiveness for her long silence and explaining to them the reason for her running off without informing them of her plans. When the letter was in the mail the girl felt happier than she had for a long time, but still doubts would arise as to the wisdom of having written.

Poor Ursula had fallen in the habit of worrying. She was naturally of a timid disposition and the hard life she had endured with her stepfather had increased the tendency to fear imaginary evils as well as the ones of which there was no doubt. She could not say what it was she feared from Mr. Cheatham and the evil Miss Fitchet, but with her at all times was a kind of nameless dread. The gay, bright atmosphere at the Higgledy Piggledy Shop did much to dispel this gloom, but at times it enveloped her in spite of her endeavors to break through it. Now that she had at last written the dear old friends the cloud seemed somewhat lifted.

“I hope it is for the best,” she said to Josie, with a note of cheer in her voice.

“Sure it is for the best! Brace up, Ursula! I can’t see what good it is to worry so much about it. Do what you think is right and then trust in the Lord. What harm could come of writing to old friends? No harm in the world. I’m glad you have told them as to your whereabouts.”

In her heart Josie could not help a feeling of impatience over Ursula’s timidity. Josie herself never acknowledged fear of anything, known or unknown. She had a philosophy that carried her through all dangers.

“I wish she would buck up and not give in to this nameless fear about what Cheatham might or might not do,” Josie mused. “Of course, if I had two little brothers like Ben and Phil I might not be so sure of myself,” she continued, “but what under Heaven could happen to those kids here in Dorfield?”

It was Christmas Eve and the Higgledy Piggledy Shop was closed for a week. It had been a strenuous time and all of the girls were tired and needed a rest. Orders of all descriptions had poured in and in the midst of the rush Josie had been employed in her capacity of detective to track a lavender suit belonging to a dressy woman, who sent it to a cleaner by her colored maid. Suit and maid had disappeared off the face of the earth. Josie had found both maid and suit. The maid was the same color but the suit, alas! was a vivid scarlet. Cleaners are also dyers.

Josie was glad the rush was over. Even her iron nerves were stretched by the Christmas rush. She was alone in the shop. It was good to be alone even if it did happen to be Christmas Eve. The partners had gone for the week. Mary Louise had come in laden with parcels, her cheeks glowing with the crisp December air and her eyes shining from the joy of giving. She had insisted upon taking Josie home with her for the holidays but to no avail.

“I’ll come and have Christmas dinner with you. I have a lot of things to do and loose ends to tie up and I’ll get it over with while the shop is closed. I’m not lonesome, dear, so don’t worry about me. Go on home to your Danny and forget your spinster friends.”

“Oh, Josie, how funny to call yourself a spinster! You won’t be a spinster for years and years.”

“Look in the dictionary and see if I’m not one already. That book says a spinster is one who spins and also an unmarried woman. I certainly am an unmarried woman even though I’m not a very old one as yet. I am also a spinster in that I am spinning a web in my mind in which to catch poor Ursula’s unscrupulous stepfather. I may never need the web but I am on the alert in case I should have to spread it out in the path of the unwary. I’ll see you to-morrow, dear. Good-bye! It was like you to get those presents for Ben and Philip. Ursula was very happy over them. She is planning a lovely to-morrow for them. She is a wonderful girl but I wish she would cheer up.”

Night closed down on Dorfield. It was a white Christmas. Josie could hear the sleigh bells ringing, as merry parties passed the shop. She made herself cosy by the open grate which was one of the attractions of the Higgledy Piggledy. She settled herself snugly in a winged chair, an antique they were selling on commission, and drawing her reading light closer with a contented sigh she opened her book—a new detective story.

“Clever, very clever!” she said aloud. Josie had a habit of talking to herself when left alone. “Clever as to story but the author is afraid to draw characters with any clearness for fear of giving away his plot. If the characterization is good then the characters must act according to the way such persons are bound to behave and so the secret is out long before the book has reached its climax. A detective tale leaves one in doubt right to the end, as to who has done the direful deed. That is because the folks in the books are like so many paper dolls, as far as being real people is concerned—painted on one side with no innards.”

The girl read on and on. The shop was quiet, with that abnormal stillness that settles on the business section of a town after business hours. As it was Christmas Eve and business is not over on that day until midnight, this extreme quiet meant that the hour had struck and it was really the dawn of Christmas Day. Still Josie read on.

“It’s my one excess and I’m going to indulge in it since Christmas comes but once a year,” she announced to the accusing ship’s clock over the mantel as it chimed out “eight bells.” She mended the fire with a large lump of coal from the hod and settled herself again.