Christmas I came to the office not to hear the statement that Brother
Powell was very sick, but the astounding announcement "Brother Powell
is dead." This was indeed terrible; but the memory of Brother Powell
has not been darkened with the thought of sickness, but remains with
us just as he was in health and vigor. We still think of the quick
step with which he came into the office, the hearty cheer with which
he greeted us, the pleasant face that shone not only at the door, but
through the whole day. He was a busy worker, as has been said, but
ever and always the same bright face, the same cheerful heart, the
same warm love, the same readiness to help bear everybody's load,
went through the long day. If you have ever spent a day in the
mountains, with its breezy temperature, and yet with the sun filling
the whole blue heavens and shining on all things--water, mountain,
valley, tree and grass--if that day has left its memory of brightness
and sweetness in your heart, such is the memory left on us in the
office by Brother Powell.

I must speak of his faithfulness as a worker. It has been referred to
in better language than I can give, but Brother Powell was
indefatigable; he knew no rest; when he toiled until the string
snapped he would go down into a sickness that lasted usually just six
days; then he would rise as quickly. This one instance will show how
he sacrificed himself. On one Sabbath he preached two or three times;
then on Monday he sank down in a six days' illness, but on the next
Sabbath morning he had agreed to preach in Mr. Beecher's church in
Brooklyn, and taking himself out of his bed, he did preach in that
church twice, and then sank down into another six days' illness. It
was in this way that the man burned out his life in the service. I
often urged him to rest, I urged his dear wife to persuade him to
rest, but I always had from him the assurance, "It is more wearisome