I remember, as if it were but last winter, the immense shawls and wraps which we unwound from about her person, her voluminous brown sack coat in which there was room for three of us at a time, and at last the tight clasp of her long arms, and her fresh, cold cheeks on ours.

And when the hugging and kissing were over, Grandma had a treat for us.

It was _talakno_, or oat flour, which we mixed with cold water and ate raw, using wooden spoons, just like the peasants, and smacking our lips over it in imaginary enjoyment.
But Grandma Rachel did not come to play.

She applied herself energetically to the housekeeping.

She kept her bright eye on everything, as if she were in her own trifling establishment in Yuchovitch.