When she deemed the proper time had come, she removed her shoes, and in stocking feet stole softly along the passage to the door of the apartment where the officers were in consultation.  Here the key-hole served the purpose to which that useful opening has so often been put, and enabled her to hear tidings of vital interest.  For some time only a murmur of voices reaches her ears.  Then silence fell, followed by one of the officers reading in a clear tone.  She listened intently, for the document was of absorbing interest.  It was an order from Sir William Howe, arranging for a secret attack on Washington’s camp at Whitemarsh.  The troops were to leave the city on the night of the 4th under cover of the darkness, and surprise the rebels before daybreak.

The fair eavesdropper had heard enough.  Rarely had key-hole listener been so well rewarded.  She glided back to her room, and threw herself on her bed.  She was none too soon.  In a few minutes afterwards steps were heard in the passage and then came a rap upon her door.  The fair conspirator was not to be taken unawares; she feigned not to hear.  The rap was repeated a second and a third time.  Then the shrewd woman affected to awake, answered in a sleepy tone, and, learning that the adjutant-general and his friends were ready to leave, arose and saw them out.

[Illustration:  The old state house, Philadelphia.]

Lydia Darrah slept no more that night.  The secret she had learned banished slumber.  What was to be done?  This thought filled her mind the night long.  Washington must be warned; but how?  Should she trust her husband, or some other member of her family?  No, they were all leaky vessels; she would trust herself alone.  Before morning she had devised a plan of action, and for the first time since learning that eventful news the anxious woman gave her mind a moment’s rest.

At early dawn she was astir.  Flour was needed for the household.  She woke her husband and told him of this, saying that she must make an early journey to Frankford to supply the needed stores.  This was a matter of ordinary occurrence in those days, the people of Philadelphia being largely dependent upon the Frankford mills for their flour, and being obliged to go for it themselves.  The idea of house-to-house delivery had not yet been born.  Mr. Darrah advised that she should take the maid with her, but she declined.  The maid could not be spared from her household duties, she said.

It was a cold December morning.  The snow of the day before had left several inches of its white covering upon the ground.  It was no very pleasant journey which lay before Mrs. Darrah.  Frankford was some five miles away, and she was obliged to traverse this distance afoot, and return over the same route with her load of flour.  Certainly comfort was not the ruling consideration in those days of our forefathers.  A ten-mile walk through the snow for a bag of flour would be an unmentionable hardship to a nineteenth-century housewife.