The Beautiful Test of Integrity

heart to heart

Lt. 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 began 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 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. "Goin' my way,
soldier?" 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 tell you that
she is waiting for you in the big restaurant across the street. ... She
said, ... it was some kind of test!"