And I told her so as well as I could, only I was crying so by now that I could hardly speak.

I told her how it was hard enough to be Mary part of the time, and Marie part of the time, when I _knew_ what they wanted me to be.

But when she tried to have me Mary while he wanted me Marie, and he tried to have me Marie while she wanted me Mary--I did not know what they wanted; and I wished I had never been born unless I could have been born a plain Susie or Bessie, or Annabelle, and not a Mary Marie that was all mixed up till I didn't know what I was.
And then I cried some more.
Mother dropped the dress then, and took me in her arms over on the couch, and she said, "There, there," and that I was tired and nervous, and all wrought up, and to cry all I wanted to.

And by and by, when I was calmer I could tell Mother all about it.
And I did.
I told her how hard I tried to be Mary all the way up to Andersonville and after I got there; and how then I found out, all of a sudden one day, that father had got ready for _Marie_, and he didn't want me to be Mary, and that was why he had got Cousin Grace and the automobile and the geraniums in the window, and, oh, everything that made it nice and comfy and homey.

And then is when they bought me the new white dresses and the little white shoes.