At last, when Beryl's patience was beginning to fail, the train came up. But a disappointment awaited Beryl. When she saw her father step on to the platform, and rushed forward to meet him, she discovered, to her dismay, that he was not alone. A tall, lanky-limbed youth, probably about sixteen, sprang out of the train after him. He was of dark complexion, with dark eyes and black hair, and held himself awkwardly, as boys do who suffer the disadvantage of too rapid growth. At the first glance, Beryl decided that he was very ugly, and she did not like him at all.
"Why, Beryl, my child!" exclaimed her father. "It is good of you to come and meet me. I need not ask if you are well; you look so bonny. This young gentleman is the son of my friend Mrs. Everard, of whom you have often heard me speak. This is my little daughter, Percy."
"Not so very little," he replied, nodding carelessly to the child, and surveying her with a cool gaze, which Beryl inwardly resented.
"No; she certainly is not, she grows like a beanstalk," said her father, surveying her with pride. "How is Coral? Is Andrew here?"
Beryl answered "Yes" to the second question, and led the way to the gate at which the phaeton was drawn up.
"Now, how are we all to find room?" said Mr. Hollys. "You get up behind, Percy, and then we will see where the portmanteaux can go. Where will you sit, Beryl?"
"There's room for her here," remarked Percy, drawing his long legs aside, and showing a small space into which Beryl might squeeze herself.
But Beryl turned away from the long-limbed youth with a decided air of disapproval.
"I would rather sit by you, please, papa," she said.
"Very well," said Mr. Hollys indulgently; "we'll manage somehow."