Christmas eve found me in Fjelkinge, at the old homestead where my father was born, and where his people had lived for generations. The place was now owned by a cousin of mine, an excellent and very prominent man in his locality. The telegram had not reached this quiet, and, to me, sacred, spot. The astonishment and surprise of my honored cousin and my two aged uncles, who were still living, can more easily be imagined than described, and I was received with cordiality and joy. That night, spent under the roof of my forefathers, surrounded by the old people and the many dear recollections, and by a new generation that had come into being since my last visit there, stands vividly in my memory as one of the most delightful of my life. Another cousin of mine, a younger brother of Hans Larson, of Fjelkinge, was rector at Trolle-Ljungby, not far from the old homestead. In his church there was to be an early service Christmas morning. We consequently left Fjelkinge very early, and arrived at Ljungby just as the candles were lighted and the service commenced. We entered and sat down in the sacristy just as my cousin had left it to enter the pulpit in the church. He did not know that we were there, but we could see him, and hear his words during the solemn "Otte song." On his return with his family to the sacristy after the services, there was another surprise, and such joy as we then experienced does not often fall to the lot of mortal man. He told us that he had just had a dream about me that very night, and his mind was full of anxiety about my safety; but he had not expected to meet me so soon. Between him and me there had been a bond of friendship and brotherhood, even from childhood, which was now renewed, never to be broken again.