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-ankle
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..."
Author
Unknown