"Your life has been so narrow, mother. You ought to get out and see things."
Unwittingly, as she often did, Grace had hurt her mother's feelings. For a moment Abbie nursed her little hurt, and then said quietly, "You know, Grace, it's queer, but I don't feel narrow. I feel broad. How can I explain it to you, so you would understand? I've seen everything and I've hardly been away from the yard. I've seen the snow on the Lombardy poplars. I've seen the clouds piled upon the edge of the prairie. I've seen the ocean billows in the rise and fall of the prairie grass. I've seen history in the making... three ugly wars flare up and die down. I've sent a lover and two brothers to one, a son and son-in-laws to another, and two grandsons to the other. I've seen the feeble beginning of a raw state and the civilization that has developed there, and I've been part of the beginning of the growth.
I've married... and borne children and looked into the face of death. Is childbirth narrow, Grace? Or marriage? Or death? When you've experienced all those things, Grace, the spirit has traveled although the body has been confined. I think travel is a rare privilege and I'm glad you can have it. But not everyone who stays home is narrow and not everyone who travels is broad." (p. 198)