The manifest evasion and mute declaration that dumpling said "mum" on that head, gave the farmer a quiet glow.
"When you are ready to tell me all about my darlin', sir," Mrs.Sumfit suggested, coaxingly.
"After dinner, mother--after dinner," said the farmer.
"And we're waitin', are we, till them dumplings is finished ?" she exclaimed, piteously, with a glance at Master Gammon's plate.
"After dinner we'll have a talk, mother." Mrs.Sumfit feared from this delay that there was queer news to be told of Dahlia's temper; but she longed for the narrative no whit the less, and again cast a sad eye on the leisurely proceedings of Master Gammon.
The veteran was still calmly tightening.

His fork was on end, with a vast mouthful impaled on the prongs.

Master Gammon, a thoughtful eater, was always last at the meal, and a latent, deep-lying irritation at Mrs.Sumfit for her fidgetiness, day after day, toward the finish of the dish, added a relish to his engulfing of the monstrous morsel.

He looked at her steadily, like an ox of the fields, and consumed it, and then holding his plate out, in a remorseless way, said, "You make 'em so good, marm." Mrs.Sumfit, fretted as she was, was not impervious to the sound sense of the remark, as well as to the compliment.
"I don't want to hurry you, Mas' Gammon," she said; "Lord knows, I like to see you and everybody eat his full and be thankful; but, all about my Dahly waitin',--I feel pricked wi' a pin all over, I do; and there's my blessed in London," she answered, "and we knowin' nothin' of her, and one close by to tell me! I never did feel what slow things dumplin's was, afore now!" The kettle simmered gently on the hob.

Every other knife and fork was silent; so was every tongue.