Roger wrote to his nephew immediately after the fire, expressing his sorrow, and consoling him by saying he could afford to lose the shop and still be the richest man in the county. Frank thought of the piles and piles of money he had spent, and wondered what Roger would say could he know of all his extravagances. But Roger did not know, and his letter comforted Frank, who, after reading it, felt better than he had before since the fire, and who was quite like himself on the night when, with his bride, he stood to receive the congratulations of his dear four hundred friends who came from Boston and Worcester and Springfield and Hartford and New York, but not many from Belvidere. A few only of the citizens were considered good enough to enter the charmed presence and take the white hand on which a thousand-dollar ring was shining. Bell wore her diamonds that night, her husband’s bridal present, for which ten thousand dollars were paid, and she shone and flashed and sparkled, and turned her proud head proudly, and never spoke to Frank when she could help it, but talked instead with her old friends from Boston,—scholars and professors, whose discourse she found far more congenial than Frank’s commonplaces were. It was a grand affair, and old Hester, who was at the house, and from the kitchen and side passages saw much that was going on, added to her journal a full account of it, after having described the fire, which she said was “just a judgment from the Lord.” Hester had rather enjoyed the fire, and felt as if justice was being meted out to _Mrs. Walter Scott_, who cried and wrung her hands, and reproached the people for standing idle and seeing her son’s property burned before their eyes. Hester ached to give her a piece of her mind, but contented herself with saying in her presence, “that folks didn’t seem very anxious. She guessed if it had been Roger’s shop they’d have stepped more lively, and not sat on the fence, a whole batch on ’em, doin’ nothin’.”