A strong hand is laid upon the poor girl's arm, and for the first time she looks up, but ventures not a word. The look was enough. It appealed to a woman's heart for protection--an appeal that never failed. How can she protect the helpless with her feeble strength, against the brutal force of rum crazed men and vicious boys, who shout, "drag her out, drag her out." Will they do it? They heed not the appealing look of their victim--their object of sport--_fun_--fun for them, death to her. They heed not the appealing words of her who would protect. God help you, poor soul, you have drank wine--you are drunk in the streets at midnight--you have none but those who are as weak as yourself, to save you, poor, timid, stricken fawn. "Drag her out, drag her out." How it rung in her ears! How those terrible words went down into her soul! Succor is at hand. There was a shout, a yell, a horrid scream of anguish, a few hurried oaths, a pushing, shoving, care-for-self-only struggle among the crowd, as a shower of smoking water fell among them, and they were gone. The lady turned her eyes, and there stood Mrs. McTravers, in her night cap, pail in hand, her effective engine of war. "Oh, Mrs. McTravers, how could you scald them?" "Didn't they deserve it, the brutes?" "Yes, yes; no, not so bad as that. I am afraid you have put out their eyes." "Oh, never fear that. Didn't I timper it, like 'the wind to the shorn lamb,' just warm enough to wash the faces of the dirty spalpeens, and give them a good fright? How the cowards did run. What were they afraid of? I had spent all my ammunition in the first volley. This is nothing but cold water, and that never hurt anybody. It is a pity the scurvy dogs did not use more of it every day, and nothing else. They would never chase poor girls through the streets, if they drank nothing but water." "Come, young woman, you can get up now and go home, if you have any to go to, and if you have not, what are you going to do with yourself?" "Why, Mrs. McTravers, we will take her in and put her to bed, and let her sleep till morning." "Take her in? What, take a common street-walker in to disgrace your house?" "Indeed, my dear, good, kind lady," said the object of their conversation, now for the first time speaking. "I am no street-walker--I am not what you take me for. Do not--pray do not, force me to go into the street again to-night. Let me lay here on the door-sill till daylight." "Never! It shall never be said I refused to give shelter to one of my own sex in distress, no matter what she is or has been. Mrs. McTravers, she must have a bed in the house to-night." "I should like to know then where you will find it. Every bed in the house is full." "I will give her mine then, and sleep myself on the floor." "No, no, no, let me sleep on the floor--on the hearth--on the stones in the back-yard, rather than go in the street again, but I won't sleep in your bed."