It was long past dark when Mifflin Sargeant, of the Snow Shoe Land Company, came within sight of the welcoming lights of Stover’s. For fourteen miles, through the foothills on the Narrows, he had not seen a sign of human habitation, except one deserted hunter’s cabin at Yankee Gap. There was an air of cheerfulness and life about the building he had arrived at. Several doors opened simultaneously at the signal of his approach, given by a faithful watchdog, throwing the rich glow of the fat-lamps and tallow candles across the road.

The structure, which was very long and two stories high, housed under its accommodating roofs a tavern, a boarding house, a farmstead, a lumber camp, a general store, and a post office. It was the last outpost of civilization in the east end of Brush Valley; beyond were mountains and wilderness almost to Youngmanstown. Tom Tunis had not yet erected the substantial structure on the verge of the forest later known as “The Forest House.”

A dark-complexioned lad, who later proved to be Reuben Stover, the son of the landlord, took the horse by the bridle, assisting the young stranger to dismount. He also helped him to unstrap his saddle-bags, carrying them into the house. Sargeant noticed, as he passed across the porch, that the walls were closely hung with stags’ horns, which showed the prevalence of these noble animals in the neighborhood.

Old Daddy and Mammy Stover, who ran the quaint caravansery, quickly made the visitor feel at home. It was after the regular supper-time, but a fresh repast of bear’s meat and corn bread was cheerfully prepared in the huge stone chimney.

The young man explained to his hosts that he had ridden that day from New Berlin; he had come from Philadelphia to Harrisburg by train, to Liverpool by packet boat, at which last named place his horse had been sent on to meet him. He added that he was on his way into the Alleghenies, where he had recently purchased an interest in the Snow Shoe development.

After supper he strolled along the porch to the far end, to the post office, thinking he would send a letter home. A mail had been brought in from Rebersburg during the afternoon, consequently the post office, and not the tavern stand, was the attraction of the crowd this night.

The narrow room was poorly lighted by fat-lamps, which cast great, fitful shadows, making grotesques out of the oddly-costumed, bearded wolf hunters present, who were the principal inhabitants of the surrounding ridges. A few women, hooded and shawled, were noticeable in the throng. In a far corner, leaning against the water bench, was young Reuben, the hostler, tuning up his wheezy fiddle. As many persons as possible hung over the rude counter, across which the mail was being delivered, and where many letters were written in reply. Above this counter were suspended three fat-lamps, attached to grooved poles, which, by cleverly-devised pulleys, could be lifted to any height desired.

The young Philadelphian edged his way through the good-humored concourse to ask permission to use the ink; he had brought his favorite quill pen and the paper with him. This brought him face to face, across the counter, with the postmistress. He had not been able to see her before, as her trim little figure had been wholly obscured by the ponderous forms that lined the counter.

Instantly he was charmed by her appearance–it was unusual–by her look of neatness and alertness. Their eyes met–it was almost with a smile of mutual recognition. When he asked her if he could borrow the ink, which was kept in a large earthen pot of famous Sugar Valley make, she smiled on him again, and he absorbed the charm of her personality anew.

Though she was below the middle height, her figure was so lithe and erect that it fully compensated for the lack of inches. She wore a blue homespun dress, with a neat checked apron over it, the material for which constituted a luxury, and must have come all the way from Youngmanstown or Sunbury. Her profuse masses of soft, wavy, light brown hair, on which the hanging lamps above brought out a glint of gold, was worn low on her head. Her deepset eyes were a transparent blue, her features well developed, and when she turned her face in profile, the high arch of the nose showed at once mental stability and energy. Her complexion was pink and white. There seemed to be always that kindly smile playing about the eyes and lips.

When she pushed the heavy inkwell towards him he noticed that her hands were very white, the fingers tapering; they were the hands of innate refinement.

Almost imperceptibly the young man found himself in conversation with the little postmistress. Doubtless she was interested to meet an attractive stranger, one from such a distant city as Philadelphia. While they talked, the letter was gradually written, sealed, weighed and paid for–it was before the days of postage stamps, and the postmistress politely waited on her customers.

He had told her his name–Mifflin Sargeant–and she had given him hers–Caroline Hager–and that she was eighteen years of age. He had told her about his prospective trip into the wilds of Centre County, of the fierce beasts which he had heard still abounded there. The girl informed him that he would not have to go farther west to meet wild animals; that wolf hides by the dozen were brought to Stover’s each winter, where they were traded in; that old Stover, a justice of the peace, attested to the bounty warrants–in fact, the wolves howled from the hill across the road on cold nights when the dogs were particularly restless.

Her father was a wolf hunter, and would never allow her to go home alone; consequently, when he could not accompany her she remained over night in the dwelling which housed the post office. Panthers, too, were occasionally met with in the locality–in the original surveys this region was referred to as “Catland”–also huge red bears and the somewhat smaller black ones.

If he was going West, she continued in her pretty way, he must not fail to visit the great limestone cave near where the Brush Mountains ended. She had a sister married and living not far from it, from whom she had heard wonderful tales, though she had never been there herself. It was a cave so vast it had not as yet been fully explored; one could travel for miles in it in a boat; the Karoondinha, or John Penn’s Creek, had its source in it; Indians had formerly lived in the dry parts, and wild beasts. Then she lowered her voice to say that it was now haunted by the Indians’ spirits.

And so they talked until a very late hour, the crowd in the post office melting away, until Jared Hager, the girl’s father, in his wolfskin coat, appeared to escort her home, to the cabin beyond the waterfall near the trail to Dolly Hope’s Valley. She was to have a holiday until the next afternoon.

The wolf hunter was a courageous-looking man, much darker than his daughter, with a heavy black beard and bushy eyebrows; in fact, she was the only brown-haired, blue-eyed one in the entire family connection. He spoke pleasantly with the young stranger, and then they all said good night.

“Don’t forget to visit the great cavern,” Caroline called to the youth.

“I surely will,” he answered, “and stop here on my way east to tell you all about it.”

“That’s good; we want to see you again,” said the girl, as she disappeared into the gloomy shadows which the shaggy white pines cast across the road.

Young Stover was playing “Green Grows the Rushes” on his fiddle in the tap-room, and Sargeant sat there listening to him, dreaming and musing all the while, his consciousness singularly alert, until the closing hour came.

That night, in the old stained four-poster, in his tiny, cold room, he slept not at all. “Yet he feared to dream.” Though his thoughts carried him all over the world, the little postmistress was uppermost in every fancy. Among the other things, he wished that he had asked her to ride with him to the cave. They could have visited the subterranean marvels together. He got out of bed and managed to light the fat lamp. By its sputtering gleams he wrote her a letter, which came to an abrupt end as the small supply of ink which he carried with him was exhausted. But as he repented of the intense sentences penned to a person who knew him so slightly, he arose again before morning and tore it to bits.

There was a white frost on the buildings and ground when he came downstairs. The autumn air was cold, the atmosphere was a hazy, melancholy gray. There seemed to be a cessation of all the living forces of nature, as if waiting for the summons of winter. From the chimney of the old inn came purple smoke, charged with the pungent odor of burning pine wood.

With a strange sadness he saddled his horse and resumed his ride towards the west. He thought constantly of Caroline–so much so that after he had traveled ten miles he wanted to turn back; he felt miserable without her. If only she were riding beside him, the two bound for Penn’s Valley Cave, he could be supremely happy. Without her, he did not care to visit the cavern, or anything else; so at Jacobsburg he crossed the Nittany Mountains, leaving the southerly valleys behind.

He rode up Nittany Valley to Bellefonte, where he met the agent of the Snow Shoe Company. With this gentleman he visited the vast tract being opened up to lumbering, mining and colonization. But his thoughts were elsewhere; they were across the mountains with the little postmistress of Stover’s.

Satisfied that his investment would prove remunerative, he left the development company’s cozy lodge-house, and, with a heart growing lighter with each mile, started for the east. It was wonderful how differently–how vastly more beautiful the country seemed on this return journey. He fully appreciated the wistful loveliness of the fast-fading autumn foliage, the crispness of the air, the beauty of each stray tuft of asters, the last survivors of the wild flowers along the trail. The world was full of joy, everything was in harmony.

Again it was after nightfall when he reined his horse in front of Stover’s long, rambling public house. This time two doors opened simultaneously, sending forth golden lights and shadows. One was from the tap-room, where the hostler emerged; the other from the post office, bringing little Caroline. There was no mail that night, consequently the office was practically deserted; she had time to come out and greet her much-admired friend. And let it be said that ever since she had seen him her heart was agog with the image of Mifflin Sargeant. She was canny enough to appreciate such a man; besides, he was a good-looking youth though perhaps of a less robust type than those most admired in the Red Hills.

After cordial greetings the young man ate supper, after which he repaired to the post office. By that time the last straggler was gone; he had a blissful evening with his fair Caroline. She anticipated his coming, being somewhat of a psychic, and had arranged to spend the night with the Stovers. There was no hurry to retire; when they went out on the porch, preparatory to locking up, the hunter’s moon was sinking behind the western knobs, which rose like the pyramids of Egypt against the sky line.

Sargeant lingered around the old house for three days; when he departed it was with extreme reluctance. Seeing Caroline again in the future appeared like something too good to be true, so down-hearted was he at the parting. But he had arranged to come back the following autumn, bringing an extra horse with him, and the two would ride to the wonderful cavern in Penn’s Valley and explore to the ends its stygian depths. Meanwhile they would make most of their separation through a regular correspondence.

Despite glances, pressure of hands, chance caresses, and evident happiness in one another’s society, not a word of love had passed between the pair. That was why the pain of parting was so intense. If Caroline could have remembered one loving phrase, then she would have felt that she had something tangible on which to hang her hopes. If the young Philadelphian had unburdened his heart by telling her that he loved her, and her alone, and heard her words of affirmation, the world out into which he was riding would have seemed less blank.

But underneath his love, burning like a hot branding iron, was his consciousness of class, his fear of the consequences if he took to the great city a bride from another sphere. As an only son, he could not picture himself deserting his widowed mother and sisters, and living at Snow Shoe; there he was sure that Caroline would be happy. Neither could he see permanent peace of mind if he married her and brought her into his exclusive circles in the Quaker City.

As he was an honorable young man, and his love was real, making her truly and always happy was the solitary consideration. These thoughts marred the parting; they blistered and ravaged his spirit on the whole dreary way back to Liverpool. There his colored servant, an antic darkey, was waiting at the old Susquehanna House to ride the horse to Philadelphia.

The young man boarded the packet, riding on it to Harrisburg, where he took the steam train for home. In one way he was happier than ever before in his life, for he had found love; in another he was the most dejected of men, for his beloved might never be his own.

He seemed gayer and stronger to his family; evidently the trip into the wilderness had done him good. He had begun his letter-writing to Caroline promptly. It was his great solace in his heart perplexity. She wrote a very good letter, very tender and sympathetic; the handwriting was clear, almost masculine, denoting the bravery of her spirit.

During the winter he was called upon through his sisters to mingle much with the society of the city. He met many beautiful and attractive young women, but for him the die of love had been cast. He was Caroline’s irretrievably. Absence made his love firmer, yet the solution of it all the more enigmatical.

The time passed on apace. Another autumn set in, but on account of important business matters it was not until December that Sargeant departed for the wilds of mountainous Pennsylvania. But he could spend Christmas with his love.

This time he sent two horses ahead to Liverpool. When he reached the queer old river town he dropped into an old saddlery shop, where the canal-boat drivers had their harness mended, and purchased a neat side saddle, all studded with brass-headed nails. This he tied on behind his servant’s saddle.

The two horsemen started up the beautiful West Mahantango, crossing the Shade Mountain to Swinefordstown, thence along the edge of Jack’s Mountain, by the gently flowing Karoondinha, to Hartley Hall and the Narrows, through the Fox Gap and Minnick’s Gap, a slightly shorter route to Stover’s.

On his previous trip he had ridden along the river to Selin’s Grove, across Chestnut Ridge to New Berlin, over Shamokin Ridge to Youngmanstown, and from there to the Narrows; he was in no hurry; no dearly loved girl was waiting for him in those days.

Caroline, looking prettier than ever–she was a trifle plumper and redder cheeked–was at the post office steps to greet him. Despite his avoidance of words of love, she was certain of his inmost feelings, and opined that somehow the ultimate result would be well.

Sargeant had arranged to arrive on a Saturday evening, so that they could begin their ride to the cave that night after the post office closed, and be there bright and early Sunday morning. For this reason he had traveled by very easy stages from Hartley Hall, that the horses might be fresh for their added journey.

Sargeant’s devoted Negro factotum was taken somewhat aback when he saw how attentive the young man was to the girl, and marveled at the mountain maid’s rare beauty. Upon instructions from his master, he set about to changing the saddles, placing the brand new lady’s saddle on the horse he had been riding.

It was not long until the tiny post office was closed for the night, and Caroline emerged, wearing a many-caped red riding coat, the hood of which she threw over her head to keep the wavy, chestnut hair in place. She climbed into the saddle gracefully–she seemed a natural horse-woman–and soon the loving pair were cantering up the road towards Wolfe’s Store, Rebersburg and the cave.

It was not quite daybreak when they passed the home of old Jacob Harshbarger, the tenant of the “cave farm;” a Creeley rooster was crowing lustily in the barnyard, the unmilked cattle of the ancient black breed shook their shaggy heads lazily; no one was up.

The young couple had planned to visit the cave, breakfast, and spend the day with Caroline’s sister, who lived not far away at Centre Hill, and ride leisurely back to Stover’s in the late afternoon. It had been a very cold all-night ride, but they had been so happy that it seemed brief and free from all disagreeable physical sensations.

In those days there was no boat in the cave, and no guides; consequently all intending visitors had to bring their own torches. This Caroline had seen to, and in her leisure moments for weeks before her lover’s coming, had been arranging a supply of rich pine lights that would see them safely through the gloomy labyrinths.

They fed their horses and then tied them to the fence of the orchard which surrounded the entrance to the “dry” cave, which had been recently set out. Several big original white pines grew along the road, and would give the horses shelter in case it turned out to be a windy day. The young couple strolled through the orchard, and down the steep path to the mouth of the “watery” cave, where they gazed for some minutes at the expanse of greenish water, the high span of the arched roof, the general impressiveness of the scene, so like the stage setting of some elfin drama.

They sat on the dead grass, near this entrance, eating a light breakfast with relish. Then they wended their way up the hill to the circular “hole in the ground” which formed the doorway to the “dry” cave. The torches were carefully lit, the supply of fresh ones was tied in a bundle about Sargeant’s waist. The burning pine gave forth an aromatic odor and a mellow light. They descended through the narrow opening, the young man going ahead and helping his sweetheart after him. Down the spiral passageway they went, until at length they came into a larger chamber. Here the torches cast unearthly shadows, bats flitted about; some small animal ran past them into an aperture at a far corner. Sargeant declared that he believed the elusive creature a fox, and he followed in the direction in which it had gone.

When he came to this opening he peered through it, finding that it led to an inner chamber of impressive proportions. He went back, taking Caroline by the hand, and led her to the narrow chamber, into which they both entered. Once in the interior room, they were amazed by its size, the height of its roof, the beauty of the stalactite formations. They sat down on a fallen stalagmite, holding aloft their torches, absorbed by the beauty of the scene.

In the midst of their musing, a sudden gust of wind blew out their lights. They were in utter darkness. The young lover bade his sweetheart be unafraid, while he reached his hand in his pocket for the matches. They were primitive affairs, the few he had, and he could not make them light. He had not counted on the use of the matches, as he thought one torch could be lit from another; consequently had brought so few with him. Finally he lit a match, but the dampness extinguished it before he could ignite his torch.

When the last match failed, it seemed as if the couple were in a serious predicament. They first shouted at the top of their voices but only empty echoes answered them. They fumbled about in the chamber, stumbling over rocks and stalagmites, their eyes refusing to become accustomed to the profound blackness. Try as they would, they could not locate the passage that led from the room they were in to the outer apartment.

Caroline, little heroine that she was, made no complaint. If she had any secret fears, her lover effectually quenched them by telling her that the presence of the two saddle horses tied to the orchard fence would acquaint the Harshbarger family of their presence in the cave.

“Surely,” he went on, “we will be rescued in a few hours. There’s bound to be some member of the household or some hunter see those horses.”

But the hours passed, and with them came no intimations of rescue. But the two “prisoners” loved one another, time was nothing to them. In the outer world, both thought, but neither made bold to say, that they might have to separate–in the cave they were one in purpose, one in love. How gloriously happy they were! But they did get a trifle hungry, but that was appeased at first by the remnants of the breakfast provisions, which they luckily still had in a little bundle.

When sufficient time had elapsed for night to set in, they fell asleep, and in each other’s arms. Caroline’s last conscious moment was to feel her lover’s kisses. When they awoke, many hours afterwards, they were hungrier than ever, and thirsty. Sargeant fumbled about, locating a small pool of water, where the two quenched their thirsts. But still they were happy, come what may.

They would be rescued, that was certain, unless the horses had broken loose and run away, but there was small chance of that. They had been securely tied. It was strange that no one had seen the steeds in so long a time, with the farmhouse less than a quarter of a mile away–but it was at the foot of the hill.

Hunger grew apace with every hour. After a while drinking water could not sate it. It throbbed and ached, it became a dull pain that only love could triumph over. Again enough hours elapsed to bring sleep, but it was harder to find repose, though Sargeant’s kisses were marvelous recompense. Caroline never whimpered from lack of food. To be with her lover was all she asked. She had prayed for over a year to be with him again. She would be glad to die at his side, even of starvation.

The young man was content; hunger was less a pain to him than had been the past fourteen months’ separation.

Again came what they supposed to be morning. They knew that there must be some way out near at hand, as the air was so pure. They shouted, but the dull echoes were their only reward. Strangely enough, they had never felt another cold gust like the one which had blown out their torches. Could the shade of one of the old-time Indians who had fought for possession of the cave been perpetrator of the trick? suggested lovely little Caroline. If so, she thought to herself, he had helped her, not harmed her, for could there be in the world a sensation half so sweet as sinking to rest in her lover’s arms?

Meanwhile the world outside the cavern had been going its way. Shortly after the young equestrian passed the Harshbarger dwelling, all the family had come out, and, after attending to their farm duties, driven off to the Seven Mountains, where the sons of the family maintained a hunting camp on Cherry Run, on the other side of High Valley.

The boys had killed an elk, consequently the guests remained longer than expected, to partake of a grand Christmas feast. They tarried at the camp all of that day, all of the next; it was not until early on the morning of the third day that they started back to the Penn’s Creek farm.

They had arranged with a neighbor’s boy, Mosey Scull, who lived further along the creek below the farm house, to do the feeding in their absence; it was winter, there was no need to hurry home.

When they got home they found Mosey in the act of watering two very dejected and dirty looking horses with saddles on their backs.

“Where did they come from?” shouted the big freight-wagon load in unison.

“I found them tied to the fence up at the orchard. By the way they act I’d think they hadn’t been watered or fed for several days,” replied the boy.

“You dummy!” said old Harshbarger, in Dutch. “Somebody’s in that cave, and got lost, and can’t get out.”

He jumped from the heavy wagon and ran to a corner of the corncrib, where he kept a stock of torches. Then he hurried up the steep hill towards the entrance to the “dry” cave. The big man was panting when he reachedreached the opening, where he paused a moment to kindle a torch with his flints. Then he lowered himself into the aperture, shouting at the top of his voice, “Hello! Hello! Hello!”

It was not until he had gotten into the first chamber that the captives in the inner room could hear him. Sargeant had been sitting with his back propped against the cavern wall, while Caroline, very pale and white-lipped, was lying across his knees, gazing up into the darkness, imagining that she could see his face.

When they heard the cheery shouts of their deliverer they did not instantly attempt to scramble to their feet. Instead the young lover bent over; his lips touched Caroline’s, who instinctively had raised her face to meet his. As his lips touched hers, he whispered:

“I love you, darling, with all my heart. We will be married when we get out of here.”

Caroline had time to say: “You are my only love,” before their lips came together.

They were in that position when the flare of Farmer Harshbarger’s torch lit up their hiding place. Pretty soon they were on their feet and, with their rescuer, figuring out just how long they had been in their prison–their prison of love.

They had gone into the cave on the morning of December 24th; it was now the morning of the 27th; in fact almost noon. Christmas had come and gone.

Caroline still had enough strength in reserve to enable her to climb up the tortuous passage, though her lover did help her some, as all lovers should.

The farmer’s wife had some coffee and buckwheat cakes ready when they arrived at the mansion; which the erstwhile captives of Penn’s Cave sat down to enjoy.

As they were eating, another of Harshbarger’s sons rode up on horseback. He had been to the post office at Earlysburg. He handed Sargeant a tiny, roughly typed newspaper published in Millheim. Across the front page, in letters larger than usual, were the words, “Mexico Declares War on the United States.”

Sargeant scanned the headline intently, then laid the paper on the table.

“Our country has been drawn into a war with Mexico,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion. “I had hoped it might be avoided. I am First Lieutenant of the Lafayette Greys; I fear I’ll have to go.”

Caroline lost the color which had come back to her pretty cheeks since emerging from the underground dungeon. She reached over, grasping her lover’s now clammy hand. Then, noticing that no one was listening, she said, faintly:

“It is terrible to have you leave me now; but won’t you marry me before you go? I do love you.” “replied Sargeant, with enthusiasm. “I will have more to fight for, with you at home bearing my name.”

Love had broken the bonds of caste.