And I told Mother, of course, it was lovely to be Marie, and I liked it, only I knew _she_ would feel bad to think, after all _her_ pains to make me Mary, Father didn't want me Mary at all.
"I don't think you need to worry--about that," stammered Mother.

And when I looked at her, her face was all flushed, and sort of queer, but not a bit angry.

And she went on in the same odd little shaky voice: "But, tell me, why--why did--your father want you to be Marie and not Mary ?" And then I told her how he said he'd remembered what I'd said to him in the parlor that day--how tired I got being Mary, and how I'd put on Marie's things just to get a little vacation from her; and he said he'd never forgotten.

And so when it came near time for me to come again, he determined to fix it so I wouldn't have to be Mary at all.
And so that was why.

And I told Mother it was all right, and of course I liked it; only it _did_ mix me up awfully, not knowing which wanted me to be Mary now, and which Marie, when they were both telling me different from what they ever had before.