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-ankle
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 go and tell you that she is waiting for you in the big restaurant across
the street. She said it was some kind of test! It's not difficult to understand and
admire Miss  Marynell'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."