val to Britain a seemingly trivial
occurrence left upon him a lasting impress--another proof that there are
no little things in life. Upon a very small hinge a huge door may swing
and turn. It is, in fact, often the apparently trifling events that
mould our history, work, and destiny.

A student incidentally mentioned a dentist in Exeter--a Mr. Groves--who
for the Lord's sake had resigned his calling with fifteen hundred pounds
a year, and with wife and children offered himself as a missionary to
Persia, _simply trusting the Lord for all temporal supplies._ This act
of self-denying trust had a strange charm for Mr. Muller, and he could
not dismiss it from his mind; indeed, he distinctly entered it in his
journal and wrote about it to friends at home. It was _another lesson in
faith,_ and in the very line of that trust of which for more than sixty
years he was to be so conspicuous an example and illustration.

In the middle of May, 1829, he was taken ill and felt himself to be past
recovery. Sickness is often attended with strange _self-disclosure._ His
conviction of sin and guilt at his conversion was too superficial and
shallow to leave any after-remembrance. But, as is often true in the
history of God's saints, the sense of guilt, which at first seemed to
have no roots in conscience and scarce an existence, struck deeper into
his being and grew stronger as he knew more of God and grew more like
Him. This common experience of saved souls is susceptible of easy
explanation. Our conceptions of things depend mainly upon two
conditions: first, the clearness of our vision of truth and duty; and
secondly, the standard of measurement and comparison. The more we live
in God and unto God, the more do our eyes become enlightened to see the
enormity and deformity of sin, so that we recognize the hatefulness of
evil more distinctly: and the more clearly do we recognize the
perfection of God's holiness and make it the pattern and model of our
own holy living.

The amateur musician or artist has a false complacency in his own very
imperfect work only so far as his ear or eye or taste is not yet trained
to accurate discrimination; but, as he becomes more accomplished in a
fine art, and more appreciative of it, he recognizes every defect or
blemish of his previous work, until the musical performance seems a
wretched failure and the painting a mere daub. The change, however, is
wholly in the _workman_ and not in the _work:_ both the