“Your mother?” breathed Dick, not a little surprised by the proposal.
“Yes. You know she’s ill. It’s pitiful, old man—she has almost completely lost her memory. I was speaking to her of you last night, and she tried in vain to recall you. She’s sitting yonder at the far end of the veranda.”
As Chester made a motion with his hand Dick’s eyes discovered a woman, seated amid pillows in a big, comfortable chair. He was shocked. Was it possible that this thin, sad-faced, white-haired old lady was Chester Arlington’s mother, the woman who, as an enemy, had been even bitterer and more venomous than Arlington himself?
There she sat with her pallid hands resting on her lap, gazing dreamily upon the mountains which rose majestically against the western sky.
“Will you come, Merriwell, old man?” asked Arlington softly, as his hand rested on Dick’s arm.
“Yes,” was the answer.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHESTER ARLINGTON’S MOTHER.
Mrs. Arlington looked up as they approached, and at sight of her son a faint smile passed over her face. From her faded eyes the old fire had died, to be rekindled no more. There was no longer rouge upon cheeks or lips, and the hands which had once been loaded with jewels were now undecorated, save by a single heavy ring of gold, her wedding ring. Her dress was plain and modest, almost somber.
“Mother,” said Chester tenderly, “this is Dick Merriwell. You remember, don’t you, that we were speaking of him last evening?”