When the curate came home from his afternoon attentions to the ailing of his flock, he was delighted to hear his wife's report of her gifts.
"Would you mind reading a page or two aloud ?" he said to their visitor, after they had had a cup of tea.

"I often get my wife to read to me." She consented at once.

He put a volume of Carlyle into her hand.

She had never even tasted a book of his before, yet presently caught the spirit of the passage, and read charmingly.
In the course of a day or two they discovered that she was sadly defective in spelling, a paltry poverty no doubt, yet awkward for one who would teach children.

In grammar and arithmetic also the curate found her lacking.