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 was a mystery to him, the girl with the rose. His interest in her had began 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. John put in a lot of time and effort searching, and he finally 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 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 at 7:00 p.m. at 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 7:00p.m. he was in the station looking for a girl whose
heart he loved, but whose face he had never seen. I'll let Mr. Blanchard tell you what
happened next: She was standing almost directly behind the girl. 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 were 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 I 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, friendship for which I had been and must 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 my sadness and 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 all 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 a 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."
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