Californian. You had better take me away and send me to Germany."

Reuben Vanderpoel laughed. He understood Betty much better than most of
her relations did. He knew when seriousness underlay her jests and his
respect for her seriousness was great. He sent her to school in Germany.
During the early years of her schooldays Betty had observed that America
appeared upon the whole to be regarded by her schoolfellows principally
as a place to which the more unfortunate among the peasantry emigrated
as steerage passengers when things could become no worse for them in
their own country. The United States was not mentally detached from any
other portion of the huge Western Continent. Quite well-educated persons
spoke casually of individuals having "gone to America," as if there were
no particular difference between Brazil and Massachusetts.

"I wonder if you ever saw my cousin Gaston," a French girl once asked
her as they sat at their desks. "He became very poor through ill living.
He was quite without money and he went to America."

"To New York?" inquired Bettina.

"I am not sure. The town is called Concepcion."

"That is not in the United States," Betty answered disdainfully. "It is
in Chili."

She dragged her atlas towards her and found the place.

"See," she said. "It is thousands of miles from New York." Her companion
was a near-sighted, rather slow girl. She peered at the map, drawing a
line with her finger from New York to Concepcion.