The first thing Annie had done was this:  she made herself look ugly.  This was not an easy thing; but she had learned a great deal from her husband, upon the subject of disguises.  It hurt her feelings not a little to make so sad a fright of herself; but what could it matter?—­if she lost Tom, she must be a far greater fright in earnest, than now she was in seeming.  And then she left her child asleep, under Betty Muxworthy’s tendance—­for Betty took to that child, as if there never had been a child before—­and away she went in her own “spring-cart” (as the name of that engine proved to be), without a word to any one, except the old man who had driven her from Molland parish that morning, and who coolly took one of our best horses, without “by your leave” to any one.

Annie made the old man drive her within easy reach of the Doone-gate, whose position she knew well enough, from all our talk about it.  And there she bade the old man stay, until she should return to him.  Then with her comely figure hidden by a dirty old woman’s cloak, and her fair young face defaced by patches and by liniments, so that none might covet her, she addressed the young man at the gate in a cracked and trembling voice; and they were scarcely civil to the “old hag,” as they called her.  She said that she bore important tidings for Sir Counsellor himself, and must be conducted to him.  To him accordingly she was led, without even any hoodwinking, for she had spectacles over her eyes, and made believe not to see ten yards.

She found Sir Counsellor at home, and when the rest were out of sight, threw off all disguise to him, flashing forth as a lovely young woman, from all her wraps and disfigurements.  She flung her patches on the floor, amid the old man’s laughter, and let her tucked-up hair come down; and then went up and kissed him.

“Worthy and reverend Counsellor, I have a favour to ask,” she began.

“So I should think from your proceedings,”—­the old man interrupted—­“ah, if I were half my age”—­

“If you were, I would not sue so.  But most excellent Counsellor, you owe me some amends, you know, for the way in which you robbed me.”

“Beyond a doubt I do, my dear.  You have put it rather strongly; and it might offend some people.  Nevertheless I own my debt, having so fair a creditor.”

“And do you remember how you slept, and how much we made of you, and would have seen you home, sir; only you did not wish it?”

“And for excellent reasons, child.  My best escort was in my cloak, after we made the cream to rise.  Ha, ha!  The unholy spell.  My pretty child, has it injured you?”

“Yes, I fear it has,” said Annie; “or whence can all my ill luck come?” And here she showed some signs of crying, knowing that Counsellor hated it.

“You shall not have ill luck, my dear.  I have heard all about your marriage to a very noble highwayman.  Ah, you made a mistake in that; you were worthy of a Doone, my child; your frying was a blessing meant for those who can appreciate.”