five o'clock
As he looked at this picture , his heart softened . He looked down at the sleeve of his soft and fleecy nightshirt , at his white , rounded arm , muscular , yet fine as a woman 's , and when he looked for the picture it was gone . Then came again the assertive odor of stagnant air , laden with camphor ; he felt the springless bed under him , and caught dimly a few soap-advertising lithographs on the walls . He thought of his brother , in his still more inhospitable bedroom , disturbed by the child , condemned to rise at five o'clock and begin another day 's pitiless labor . His heart shrank and quivered , and the tears started to his eyes . `` I forgive him , poor fellow ! He 's not to blame . ''