This file was submitted by Lanette Currington.

  
 
   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. T

his 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."