She went out more than I, not being so afraid of the cold.

She used to fret so when my mother was away in the store that it became a custom for her to accompany my mother from the time she was a mere baby.

Muffled and rosy and frost-bitten, the tears of cold rolling unnoticed down her plump cheeks, she ran after my busy mother all day long, or tumbled about behind the counter, or nestled for a nap among the bulging sacks of oats and barley.

She warmed her little hands over my mother's pot of glowing charcoal--there was no stove in the store--and even learned to stand astride of it, for further comfort, without setting her clothes on fire.
Fetchke was like a young colt inseparable from the mare.

I make this comparison not in disrespectful jest, but in deepest pity.