Should it happen that the child’s work is seriously impaired because his sleep is interfered with, either because the mother’s work is carried late into the night and goes on in the child’s so-called bedroom, or because he is allowed to partake too freely of tea and coffee, the injurious effects of this way of living are demonstrated and the family is, in the one case, urged to move to better rooms, and in the other, plead with until milk and cocoa are substituted for tea and coffee. If then, the longed-for change sets in, showing itself in the child’s ability to make normal responses at school, word is carried to the home and thereby is strengthened the bond that makes these two centers one in their desire to promote the child’s well being. But there are times when the cause is not so obvious and does not lend itself so easily to a simple solution. It happens often that what to the school appears a lack of co-operation on the part of the home means only that the parents have tried and failed. Again and again the visiting teacher is besought “Use your influence,” “Come and advise us,” “Robert” or “Alice,” “pays attention to you,”—all of which reduced to its lowest terms means that somewhere there is failure to understand. “It is because we are treated as we are at home that we run the streets,” is the way one girl of fourteen sums up the situation. On the other hand it may happen that the source of the difficulty is to be found in the school itself, in the conditions that surround the child there, which, in the light of the information gathered in the home, expose to view some serious maladjustment. Perhaps it is a case of simple misunderstanding between teacher and pupil, the former holding the latter to a sort of rule-of-thumb scale of measurement when, mentally and physically, the child is incapable of following. Handicapped by nature, perhaps one of a long line similarly affected, is it to be expected that his reactions will be what in age and grade they should be? For such as he the hope lies in a curriculum so elastic that at some point the spark of interest cannot fail to be struck. In the class room Lillian, a frail girl of thirteen, had apparently made only the impression of being a slow, sleepy, listless child. The first interviews showed her ill at ease. She studied hard every evening, she insisted; but when she was questioned in the class all the carefully memorized facts flew to the winds, she was so afraid. History was her Waterloo. Try as she would, she could not conquer. The outlook was not promising. The visit to the home revealed that she loved to draw. Tony, the black and white spaniel, and Nellie, his fox-terrier companion, had up to that time been her only models. In her leisure moments she sketched them lying before the kitchen stove, or curled up, asleep, under the table.