y dear son, papa has to
leave you." "O papa," said the lad, "pray not to die." "We have prayed,
my dear boy, but it is God's will to take me home, and He knows best.
You must love your mamma and obey her; be good to your sisters. I want
you to grow up and become a minister of the gospel. Try to make a
better preacher than your papa has been. Be studious and industrious,
and live so that you may at last meet me in heaven. May God bless you,
my son, and keep you in His care. Kiss me good-bye."

Throwing one arm around his wife, he said, "My dear, my affliction has
been a blessing to me in having you near me all the time. You have been
everything on earth that a good wife could be. I have loved you even
more in my affliction than I ever did before. I want to thank you for
all your kindness to me and loving care of me. If I have ever done or
said anything I should not, I want you to forgive me now. I can say on
my dying bed that I have always been a true husband to you. I have made
the best provision I could for you and the children, and if there
should appear any mistakes they have not been of my heart." He then
bade her a long and last farewell.

He then blessed his three little grandchildren and kissed them;
expressed a desire to see his "dear old mother," brother and sisters
once more, and spoke of some business matters a moment, then said,
"This is too sacred for that."

For two or three days before this he had been able to speak only a few
words at a time; but throughout this interview with his family, his
voice was as strong and clear as it had ever been. After this his
breathing became difficult, and he could gasp only a single word now
and then. He seemed to have no wish to be occupied with this world. The
weary traveler had at last reached the goal; and about nine o'clock
Thursday night, January 6, 1887, his pure spirit left its frail
tenement to suffer no more.

The following account of his funeral, written by his devoted friend and
Christian brother, W. K. Azbill, may well close the biography of Frank
Gibbs Allen:

"IT IS FINISHED."

It is finished. The struggle with his fatal malady is over at last,
and F. G. Allen is at rest. He sank into a quiet sleep last
Thursday night, Jan. 6, 1887.

A few friends were notified of the end by telegrams, and that the
burial would take place from Mt. Byrd Church on Sunday, but the
condition of the Ohio River rendered it extremely difficult