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 now
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, the 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
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."
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