>> 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 aynell. 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 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."