John Blanchard stood up from the bench, straightened his Army uniform, and studied the crowd
of people making their way through Grand Central.  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 over seas 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 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 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."