ogether can't fail to do well."

Brauner reflected. "You can have the money," he said.

She went up the Avenue humming softly one of Heine's love songs, still
with that wonderful, beautiful look in her eyes. She stopped at the
tenement with the vacant store. The owner, old man Schulte, was
sweeping the sidewalk. He had an income of fifteen thousand a year;
but he held that he needed exercise, that sweeping was good exercise,
and that it was stupid for a man, simply because he was rich, to stop
taking exercise or to take it only in some form which had no useful
side.

"Good morning," said Hilda. "What rent do you ask for this store?"

"Sixty dollars a month," answered the old man, continuing his sweeping.
"Taxes are up, but rents are down."

"Not with you, I guess. Otto Heilig and I are going to get married and
open a delicatessen. But sixty dollars a month is too much. Good
morning." And she went on.

Schulte leaned on his broom. "What's your hurry?" he called. "You
can't get as good a location as this."

Hilda turned, but seemed to be listening from politeness rather than
from interest.

"We can't pay more than forty," she answered, starting on her way again.

"I might let you have it for fifty," Schulte called after her, "if you
didn't want any fixing up."

"It'd have to be fixed up," said Hilda, halting again. "But I don't
care much for the neighborhood. There are too many delicatessens here
now."

She went on more rapidly and the old man resumed his sweeping,
muttering crossly into his long, white beard. As she came down the
other side of the street half an hour later, she was watching Schulte
from the corner of her eye. He was leaning on his broom, watching her.
Seeing that she was going to pass without stopping he called to her and
went slowly across the street. "You would make good tenants," he said.
"I had to sue Bischoff. You can have it for forty--if you'll pay for
the changes you want--you really won't want any."

"I was looking at it early this morning," replied Hilda. "There'll have
to be at least two hundred dollars spent. But then I've my eye on
another place."

"Forty's no rent at all," grumbled the old man, pulling at his whiskers.

"I can get a store round in Seventh Street for thirty-five and that
includes three rooms at the back. You've got only one room at the
back."

"There's a kitchen, too," said Schulte.

"A kitchen? Oh, you mean that closet."

"I'll let