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While Pussy and Ben were yet adding fagots to the fire, they heard a voice crying out: “The young rascals shall be punished soundly for this,” and ere Pussy had time to explain or expostulate, a strong man had Ben in his grasp.

“Stop that, sir!” cried the girl, rushing to the rescue with a burning fagot that she had seized from the fire, and shaking it full in the assailant’s face.

By the light of it, the man saw Pussy and she saw him; and then both began to laugh, while Ben rubbed his ears and wondered whether they were both on his head.

“It means,” spoke the girl, waving the still flaming brand toward the east, “that the British left Boston this morning, and that General”–(just here a dozen men were at the fire. Pussy raised her voice and continued)–“Washington wants you all, every one of you, to march straight to Governor Trumbull, and he’ll tell you what to do next.”

“If that’s the case,” said the responsible man of the constantly-increasing group after questioning Pussy, “we’d better summon the militia by the ringing of the bell,” and off they went in the direction of the village, while Pussy and Ben went home.

The next day saw fifty men, well armed, and provisioned for three days, on the road to Lebanon. They marched into town and into the now famous war-office of Governor Trumbull, to his pleased surprise.

“Who sent you?” asked the governor, for it was not yet six hours since the demand on the nearest town had been made.

“Who sent us?” echoed the lieutenant, looking confused and at a loss to explain, and finally answering truthfully, he said: “It was a young girl, your excellency. She lit a beacon fire on a hill and gave the command that we report to you.”

A laugh ran around the sides of the old war-office. The messenger who had ridden from Cambridge sat upon the counter pressing his spurs into the wood and heard it all.

“And who commissioned the girl as a recruiting officer?” questioned the governor.

“I’m afraid,” said the messenger, “I am the guilty party. I met a young patriot in scarlet cloak who asked my news, and, I told her.”

“Where is the girl’s father?” demanded Governor Trumbull.

“He is with the army, at Cambridge,” was the response.

“And his name?”

“Reuben Dean.”

A scratch or two of the quill pen was heard on the open paper. It was folded, sealed, and handed to the ready horseman, with the words: “Reuben Dean; he is mentioned for promotion.”

The words, as they were spoken by Governor Trumbull, were caught up and gathered into a mighty cheer, for every man of their number knew that Reuben Dean was worthy of promotion, even had his daughter not gained it for him by her services as recruiting officer.