Once upon a time rash matrons and ambitious young wives had aspired to rival her , but they had long ago realised the vanity of such efforts and dropped comfortably back to second place . Josephine felt an artist 's pride in her table when she set the teapot on its stand and invited David to sit in . There were pink slices of cold tongue , and crisp green pickles and spiced gooseberry , the recipe for which Josephine had invented herself , and which had taken first prize at the Provincial Exhibition for six successive years ; there was a lemon pie which was a symphony in gold and silver , biscuits as light and white as snow , and moist , plummy cubes of fruit cake . There was the ruby-tinted cherry preserve , a mound of amber jelly , and , to crown all , steaming cups of tea , in flavour and fragrance unequalled . And Josephine , too , sitting at the head of the table , with her smooth , glossy crimps of black hair and cheeks as rosy clear as they had been twenty years ago , when she had been a slender slip of girlhood and bashful young David Hartley had looked at her over his hymn-book in prayer-meeting and tramped all the way home a few feet behind her , because he was too shy to go boldly up and ask if he might see her home . All taken together , what wonder if David lost his head over that tea-table and determined to ask Josephine the same old question once more ? It was eighteen years since he had asked it for the first time , and two years since the last . He would try his luck again ; Josephine was certainly more gracious than he remembered her to ever have been before . When the meal was over Josephine cleared the table and washed the dishes . When she had taken a dry towel and sat down by the window to polish her china David understood that his opportunity had come . He moved over and sat down beside her on the sofa by the window . Outside the sun was setting in a magnificent arch of light and colour over the snow-clad hills and deep blue St. Lawrence gulf . David grasped at the sunset as an introductory factor . `` Is n't that fine , Josephine ? '' he said admiringly . `` It makes me think of that piece of poetry that used to be in the old Fifth Reader when we went to school . D'ye mind how the teacher used to drill us up in it on Friday afternoons ? It begun ` Slow sinks more lovely ere his race is run Along Morea 's hills the setting sun . ' '' Then David declaimed the whole passage in a sing-song tone , accompanied by a few crude gestures recalled from long-ago school-boy elocution . Josephine knew what was coming .
Every time David proposed XXXXX her he had begun by reciting poetry .
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