All this energy poured into us from the material and from the spiritual universe around us accumulates in us. It accumulates bodily in vital force, zest, animal spirits, or "pep"; the desire to shout and sing or jump or slap somebody on the back. That is the vital side of our unexpended borrowings, the bodily expression of the fact that we have received more than we can easily take care of. But mental energy accumulates too; and the sense of its pressure is expressed in what seems to me the greatest word in our language--_gratitude_. Gratitude is "happiness doubled by wonder," happiness such as anybody may contain almost unconsciously or may let out of him, if he is thoughtful, in action sprung from conscious gratitude. Gratitude seems to me ultimately the motive of social work. We find in ourselves this painful head of energy--to me often painful. The sense of an animal caged, of a dog in leash, is the figure that most often comes to me as I am aware of what has been given to me and of how little I have paid it back. The extra flood of physical energy which any healthy human being or animal has, is paralleled in this tension of gratitude for all the gifts which we have not properly handed back, have not passed on, and never shall. The attempt to pay out, to pass on, this energy naturally divides itself up according to the ways in which we have received it. We have received the physical bounty of life. We know how good it is to get water when we are thirsty and food when we are hungry, and along with the full-flavored awareness of this good we feel the pain of not being able to share it as swiftly as we would like to share it, as fully as we would like to share it, with people who have not got what we have. We call that pity, the sense of kind. I think of it as the sense of a common need. Other people are such as we. We are painfully aware of what has been given to us, and how much we and everybody else need it, and how little we deserve it. We are eager therefore to pass that on in any such form as it can be received. We are grateful for any good chance to pass it on. A homely but true image is that of the nursing mother. The baby needs milk and the mother needs to get rid of that milk. It is a painful pressure in her breast and a pressing need in her child. The two needs meet and satisfy each other. We are just as eager, I think, to give back in kind all the different sorts of delight and of beauty for which we are grateful. But we have not well expressed this eagerness. I have dwelt already on the great lack of beauty and of art in social work, on its ugliness and drabness, and on the care-worn look in the social worker's face. But no one who is vividly conscious of the gifts of beauty which have come into his own life can continue to make his attempts at social work as unbeautiful as they have been hitherto.