Ally didn't seem to mind it. She had grown plump and pink and rather like Mary without her subtlety. She sat smiling, tranquil among the cries of her offspring.
Jim turned three dogs out into the yard by way of discipline. He and Ally tried to talk to each other across the tumult that remained. Now and then Ally and the children talked to Gwenda. They told her that the black and white cow had calved, and that the blue lupins had come up in the garden, that the old sow had died, that Jenny, the chintz cat, had kittened and that the lop-eared rabbit had a litter.
"And Baby's got another tooth," said Ally.
"I'm breaakin' in t' yoong chestnut," said Jim. "Poor Daasy's gettin' paasst 'er work."
All these happenings were exciting and wonderful to Ally.
"But you're not interested, Gwenda."
"I am, darling, I am."
She was. Ally knew it but she wanted perpetual reassurance.
"But you never tell us anything."
"There's nothing to tell. Nothing happens."