It was not till that door shut, that Missy realized what had come to pass in her life, and what she had done, or left undone. A great blankness and dreariness settled down upon her with an instant pall. She did not blame herself--she could not have spoken, no woman of her make could have spoken. She did not blame herself, but she blamed her fate, that put her where she stood, that made her as she was. An angry rebellion slowly awoke within her. It is safer to blame yourself than to blame fate. Poor Missy took the unsafest way, and went into the house, hardening her heart, and resisting the destiny that lay before her. CHAPTER XXIV. SHUT AND BARRED. The destiny that lay before her was a little harder than even she knew, when she went into the hall that night, throwing off the damp cloak that she had worn, and mechanically walking to the fire in the library to warm herself, after her half-hour in the chilly night air. She thought she knew how dull and hateful her life was to be, how lonely, how uneventful. She was still young--twenty-nine is young when you are twenty-nine, not, of course, when you are seventeen. She had just found out what it is, to have life full and intense in emotion and interest, and now she was turned back into the old path that had seemed good enough before, when she did not know any better one. But still, with resolute courage, she said to herself, her mother, and duty, and study, and health, and money, might do something for her yet, and, after a year or two of bitterness, restore her to content and usefulness. These things she said to herself, not on that first night of pain, but the next day, when she walked past the shut-up house, and wondered, under the cold gray sky, at the strength of the emotion that had filled her as she had watched, through the darkness, the glimmer of the cigar spark by the gate. Thank heaven, she hadn't spoken! She knew just as well now what she had lost, as then, but daylight, and east wind, level values inevitably. It was all worth less--living and dying, love and loneliness. She could bear what she had chosen, she hadn't any doubt. How gloomy the day was! Raw and chill, and yet not cold enough to brace the nerves. The gate stood ajar. Missy pushed through it, and walked down the path. Some straw littered the piazza steps; an empty paper box lay on the grass. The windows were all closed. Only the dog, still chained to his kennel, howled her a dismal welcome. He was to go, probably, to some new home that day. Well, Missy thought bitterly, he will at least have novelty to divert him.