People got on and off the tram at the dozens of stops it made along the way, and Bliss watched them, curious to know what business they were about, what their lives were like, what their hopes and dreams were.

In the heart of Auckland, where the tram made its turnabout to start on the return leg of its route, Bliss got off, admiring the tall buildings that rose along the sidewalks and taking care not to step in front of a buggy or coach as she crossed the road.

Heeding her aunt’s advice, Bliss did not approach the docks as she’d originally planned, but sought out a shipping agency instead. The first one she came to had a wide front window with a title painted on the glass: RYAN FREIGHT AND PASSAGE COMPANY. Beneath this, in smaller script, were the words “P. Ryan, Prop.”

After drawing a deep breath, Bliss opened the door and walked into the establishment. A clerk came forward from the rear, weaving between half a dozen desks crowded close together, and smiled. “May I help you, miss?”

Bliss felt shy, but she overcame that quickly enough. A person couldn’t afford to hesitate, not if they wanted their dreams to come true. She introduced herself and related her desire to earn her passage to the United States.

The clerk seemed very understanding. “Well, we do get passengers in sometimes who are looking for help.” He paused and assessed Bliss’s hair, which was held back from her face with two small tortoiseshell combs and falling free down her back. “How old are you?”

Bliss was a bit shaken by that question, even though she was certainly of an age that permitted her to do as she wished. She did regret, however, not taking the trouble to put up her hair. That always made her look older.

“I’m nineteen,” she answered.

The young man nodded and, taking up a pencil and a pad of paper, began to write. “What is your name and where can you be reached, please?” he asked, in tones that were carefully businesslike.

Bliss related the necessary information, then asked, “Do you think someone will want me?”

There was a look of kind indulgence in the clerk’s eyes. “I don’t believe there’s any question of that, Miss Stafford,” he said.

She smiled. “I suppose I should leave my name with the other shipping agents, too,” she mused. “Are their offices nearby?”

Accommodatingly, the gentleman wrote out a list. “Stay away from this one,” he said, putting a prominent check beside one company name. “There are rumors about some of the business they conduct in the Orient.”

Bliss nodded, grateful for the warning, and took the list. After thanking the clerk for everything, she stepped out of the warm agency into the biting cold of a late-winter day.

The sidewalks were thick with people, and carriages, buggies, and saddle horses filled the cobbled street. Bliss felt uplifted by the hustle and bustle. In the very next instant, however, her heart was wedged into her throat.