“They may say whatever they have a mind to, but they can’t persuade me that there’s no such thing as special providences,” and she twitched her strong linen thread so angrily through the carpet she was sewing, that it snapped and the big needle flew into the air.  It had to be found before any further remarks could be made, and the listener also knelt down to search for it.  After a while it was discovered clinging to Miss Debby’s own dress, and after reharnessing it she went to work again at her long seam.  It was always significant of a succession of Miss Debby’s opinions when she quoted and berated certain imaginary persons whom she designated as “They,” who stood for the opposite side of the question, and who merited usually her deepest scorn and fullest antagonism.  Her remarks to these offending parties were always prefaced with “I tell ’em,” and to the listener’s mind “they” always stood rebuked, but not convinced, in spiritual form it may be, but most intense reality; a little group as solemn as Miss Debby herself.  Once the listener ventured to ask who “they” were, in her early childhood, but she was only answered by a frown.  Miss Debby knew as well as any one the difference between figurative language and a lie.  Sometimes they said what was right and proper, and were treated accordingly; but very seldom, and on this occasion it seemed that they had ventured to trifle with sacred things.

“I suppose you’re too young to remember John Ashby’s grandmother?  A good woman she was, and she had a dreadful time with her family.  They never could keep the peace, and there was always as many as two of them who didn’t speak with each other.  It seems to come down from generation to generation like a—­curse!” And Miss Debby spoke the last word as if she had meant it partly for her thread, which had again knotted and caught, and she snatched the offered scissors without a word, but said peaceably, after a minute or two, that the thread wasn’t what it used to be.  The next needleful proved more successful, and the listener asked if the Ashbys were getting on comfortably at present.

“They always behave as if they thought they needed nothing,” was the response.  “Not that I mean that they are any ways contented, but they never will give in that other folks holds a candle to ’em.  There’s one kind of pride that I do hate,—­when folks is satisfied with their selves and don’t see no need of improvement.  I believe in self-respect, but I believe in respecting other folks’s rights as much as your own; but it takes an Ashby to ride right over you.  I tell ’em it’s the spirit of the tyrants of old, and it’s the kind of pride that goes before a fall.  John Ashby’s grandmother was a clever little woman as ever stepped.  She came from over Hardwick way, and I think she kep’ ’em kind of decent-behaved as long as she was round; but she got wore out a doin’ of it, an’ went down to her grave in a quick consumption.  My mother set up with her the night she died.