pains with me in her leisure hours; but by some freak of Nature, not
such an unusual thing as people would have us believe, from some want of
power in the brain--at least, so a clever man has since told me--I was
unable to master more than the rudiments of spelling.

I know some people would laugh incredulously at this, but the fact will
remain.

As a child I have lain sobbing on my bed, beaten down by a very anguish
of humiliation at being unable to commit the column of double syllables
to memory, and have only been comforted by Aunt Agatha's patience and
gentleness.

At school I had a severer ordeal. For a long time my teachers refused to
admit my incapacity; they preferred attributing it to idleness,
stubbornness, and want of attention; even Aunt Agatha was puzzled by it,
for I was a quick child in other things, could draw very well for my
age, and could accomplish wonders in needlework, was a fair scholar in
history and geography, soon acquired a good French accent, and did some
of my lessons most creditably.

But the construction of words baffle me to this day. I should be
unwilling to write the simplest letter without a dictionary lying
snugly near my hand. I have learned to look my misfortune in the face,
and to bear it with tolerable grace. With my acquaintances it is a
standing joke, with my nearest and dearest friends it is merely an
opportunity for kindly service and offers to write from my dictation,
but when I was growing into womanhood it was a bitter and most shameful
trial to me, one secretly lamented with hot tears and with a most
grievous sense of humiliation.