something.

They called him "daddy."

All day long I wondered at his secret, for he was so unlike any man I
had seen in France in the way he had won the hearts of the boys. I was
curious to know. Something in his eyes made me think of Lincoln. They
had a look like Lincoln in their depths.

That night when I was about to leave I blunderingly stumbled on his
secret. About the only ornament in his bare pine room in the hut was a
picture on the desk. I seized on it immediately, for next to a
sweet-faced baby about the finest thing on earth to look at is a boy
between five and twelve. And here were two, dressed in plaid suits,
with white collars, tousled hair, clean, fine American boys.

I exclaimed as I picked the picture up:

"What a fine pair of lads!"

Then I knew that I had, unwittingly, stumbled into his secret, for a
look of infinite pain swept over his face.

"They are both dead. Last August wife called me on the phone and said
that something awful had happened to the boys. They were all we had,
and I hurried home.

"They had gone out on a Boy Scout picnic. The older had gone in
swimming in the river and had gotten beyond his depth. The younger
went in after him and both were drowned."