“But I have a class this next hour, and I live clear across the city!” exclaimed the student, in dismay. “I can’t go home!” “But you can’t stay here, since you don’t know how to use a common study hall. Please go at once, and I’ll report to your teacher why you are gone. I have work to do, and can’t spend my time policing the room.” The puzzled boy rose slowly and left the room. Miss Stansbury went to the high school office, called up his mother, and told her that her son would be home shortly, as he had been playing in the assembly room and would therefore have to do his studying at home that day. “But he can’t study at home. We live a mile and a half across the city. What was he doing? Was it anything dreadful?” “Not at all. He merely rolled a lemon up the aisle, a very innocent performance at any other time—but this happened to be study hour.” “Well, you may be very sure he won’t do it again!” and the indignant mother hung up her receiver with a snap. When Miss Stansbury reached the assembly room again she saw a group standing around a boy near the center of the room. They were giggling and peering over his shoulder at something on the desk—which, when she reached them, Miss Stansbury discovered to be the last copy of _Life_. “Don’t go to your seats yet. I want to talk to you a moment, and I don’t want to disturb those who are studying by talking very loud. You six people also seem not to have learned what a study hour is for. Play and fun and _Life_ belong to other times and places. I shall write your names on slips, and send them to the teachers of your various classes, so that if you are absent or tardy they may know why. And now you six may take whatever study books you need and go home. You can not stay here unless you study, for this is a study period. I shall call up your homes and tell your parents why you are coming home.” “Will you give us an excuse for absence from physics next hour?” one boy asked. “Why, no. You have excuses only for necessary absences.” “But then we’ll get a zero for the recitation!” “Yes, I suppose so. But a high school boy is supposed to know enough to study during study hours.” Miss Stansbury was smiling and implacable. The six passed out, grumbling and almost rebellious. Miss Stansbury went again to the telephone, and told five mothers (the sixth one being out) why their children were coming home. “Why don’t you _make_ him study?” said one mother. “I am doing so,” was the reply. When she returned to the assembly room all was quiet. Not one of the students who were left cared to play, or write notes, or roll lemons. Here was a teacher who meant business. Miss Stansbury did not reform the students altogether, for they often slid back into their old habits when the younger and weaker teachers had charge of the room. But when she was in charge, there was quiet and industry, and no attempt at ill-timed fun.