"Chimneys."
"Well, what of them?"
"There was smoke in them once,--smoke rising from our father's fires, you know, Anna."
"But so long ago, one scarcely feels it."
"Only sixteen years; we remember, you and I, the day the fires were put out."
"Yes, I remember."
"Don't you think we ought to love the place where our lives began, because our father lived here too?"
"It's a sorry sort of obligation, to ought to love anything."
"Even the graves, out there, in the church-yard?"
"Yes, even them. I would rather love them through knowing something that some one tenant of them loved and suffered and achieved than to love them merely because they hold the mortal temples that once were columns in 'our family.' The world says we ought to love so much, and our hearts tell us we ought to love foolishly sometimes, and I say one oughtn't to love at all."