Yet Moses Grant had sat unmoved in his vine-grown arbor. His soul was passionless, his face was calm. His book had fallen to the ground, and his head rested on the back of his chair. Suddenly there came a visitor to the arbor. Moses raised his head and saw a being--whether man or woman I can not tell--with a face, oh! so bright and calm, with eyes that looked from the deepest soul, and a pure forehead that spoke of unworldly rest--a face that shone in its own vista of light when all around was dark. The Presence bore an open book in its hands, and came and stood before Moses Grant and looked earnestly into his face. 'Who are you?' he cried, half in fear, before the calm look of his visitor, and half in confidence, because of the look of love. 'I am the census-taker.' 'No, no; it was he who came a little while ago.' 'He was one census-taker--he came to learn how much you _seemed_ to possess; I come to learn your _real_ possessions. I am the real census-taker.' Moses Grant knew not what it meant; he sat speechless, in wonder. He would have fled, but he knew not where he could flee in the darkness; he must remain with his strange visitor, as all men must one day stand alone with an awakened Conscience. 'When were you born?' asked the Presence. 'Sixty years ago,' answered Moses. 'You understand me not. I do not ask for the time when you were born into your outward show of life, but when you commenced to live.' 'Still I do not know your meaning,' said Moses. 'Then you have not yet been born. You exist--you do not live. Say not again that you have lived sixty years, for your being has not yet expanded into life.'