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, 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.