John Blanchard stood up from the bench
straightened his Army uniform, and studied
the crowd of people making their way
through Grand Central Station. He looked
for the girl whose heart he knew, but whose
face he didn't, the girl with the rose.

His interest in her had begun thirteen
months before in a Florida library. Taking
a book off the shelf he found himself
intrigued, not with the words of the book,
but with the notes penciled in the margin.
The soft handwriting reflected a thoughtful
soul and insightful mind. In the front of
the book, he discovered the previous owner's
name, Miss Hollis Maynell. With time and
effort he located her address. She lived
in New York City.

He wrote her a letter introducing himself
and inviting her to correspond. The next
day he was shipped overseas for service
in World War II. During the next year and
one month the two grew to know each other
through the mail. Each letter was a seed
falling on a fertile heart. A romance
was budding. Blanchard requested a
photograph, but she refused. She felt that
if he really cared, it wouldn't matter what
she looked like.

When the day finally came for him to return
from Europe, they scheduled their first
meeting - 7:00 PM at the Grand Central
Station in New York. "You'll recognize me,"
she wrote, "by the red rose I'll be wearing
on my lapel." So at 7:00 he was in the station
looking for a girl whose heart he loved, but
whose face he'd never seen.

I'll let Mr. Blanchard tell You what happened:

A young woman was coming toward me, her figure
long and slim. Her blonde hair lay back in curls
from her delicate ears; her eyes were blue as
flowers. Her lips and chin had a gentle firmness,
and in her pale green suit she was like springtime
come alive. I started toward her, entirely
forgetting to notice that she was not wearing a
rose. As I moved, a small, provocative smile
curved her lips. "Going my way, sailor?" she
murmured. Almost uncontrollably, I made one step
closer to her, and then I saw Hollis Maynell.

She was standing almost directly behind the girl.
A woman well past 40, she had graying hair tucked
under a worn hat. She was more than plump, her
thick-ankled feet thrust into low-heeled shoes.
The girl in the green suit was walking quickly
away. I felt as though I was split in two, so
keen was my desire to follow her, and yet so deep
was my longing for the woman whose spirit had
truly companioned me and upheld my own. And there
she stood. Her pale, plump face was gentle and
sensible, her gray eyes had a warm and kindly
twinkle. I did not hesitate. My fingers gripped
the small worn blue leather copy of the book
that was to identify me to her.

This would not be love, but it would be something
precious, something perhaps even better than
love, a friendship for which I had been and must
ever be grateful. I squared my shoulders and
saluted and held out the book to the woman, even
though while I spoke I felt choked by the
bitterness of my disappointment. "I'm Lieutenant
John Blanchard, and you must be Miss Maynell. I
am so glad you could meet me; may I take you to
dinner?" The woman's face broadened into a
tolerant smile. "I don't know what this is about,
son," she answered, "but the young lady in the
green suit who just went by, she begged me to
wear this rose on my coat. And she said if you
were to ask me out to dinner, I should tell you
that she is waiting for you in the big restaurant
across the street. She said itwas some kind of test!"

It's not difficult to understand and admire Miss
Maynell's wisdom. The true nature of a heart is
seen in its response to the unattractive. "Tell
me whom you love," Houssaye wrote, "And I will
tell you who you are."

Anthor: Unknown