No one suspected that Evelyn and Paul Cassat had saved millions

"Don't pass me by, Robin, don't pass me by."

That's what Evelyn Cassat would say. By the time I met her, Evelyn couldn't see very well. Not much at all. Probably legally blind. So what she meant was, "If you see me somewhere, come talk to me. I can't see you but don't pass me by."

I met Evelyn and her husband, Paul, about eight years ago. They came by the telephone museum here in Abilene. I'm certain Paul had on a suit, Evelyn a cotton dress. They had come to ask me a question, I no longer remember what. I hope I knew the answer.

That Evelyn! The kindest people said she was eccentric. Those not so kind: odd, weird. But always, "You know, she's got money."

No, I didn't know. I once offered to pay her bill at the grocery store because, from all appearances, she was desperately poor. There was a fierceness about her. That "When I'm old, I will wear purple" funny hat poem -- that was Evelyn.

But I daresay, few dreamed she'd leave $8.5 million to Wichita State University, as the Cassat's estate did this past week.

uuuu

At that first encounter at the office, this private couple -- neither's obituary was released to newspapers -- shared their latest adventure.

Evelyn could not see, Paul could no longer hear. Evelyn said they almost added up to one person.

It seems Paul's driver's license would not be renewed. He had failed the eye exam. There was only one thing to do: Paul straining to see, Evelyn listening for trouble, had taken a final drive.

Topeka, Kansas City, Wichita. It was grand, she said.

With all the talk of birthdays, Paul and I discovered we were born on the same August day, 44 years apart. On our birthday, Paul and Evelyn showed up with my piece of the cake.

When they left that first day, Evelyn turned to me and clasped my hands, her unseeing eyes intent. "Robin, if you see us, don't pass us by."

And they were gone, Paul at the wheel. Their car was easy to spot -- it was the teal-colored station wagon with an extra-pointy spotlight mounted on the roof.

uuuu

It's July. That's Evelyn, I note as I drive by. The yard is overgrown. Evelyn is sitting in a plastic lawn chair, pulling weeds and dropping them into a brown paper bag.

Don't pass me by.

I want to scold her, "It's too hot. Let me drive you home." Evelyn owned two houses that I knew of. Neither had much paint. Now she was weeding the yard of the little empty house on Cedar Street.

Instead I asked, "Would you like a cherry limeade?" She thought she might; she'd never had one. Minutes later, Evelyn took a long drink. I sat in the grass. We talked for a while, about the state of the world, about weeding, about what a wonderful invention cherry limeade is.

As she resumed weeding, the bag on one side, the drink on the other, all three seemed the same size.

uuuu

"Robin, I need a ride." Paul died in 2002. Evelyn sometimes asked if I had time to drive her somewhere.

"Tomorrow, they're doing feet at the senior center and I need a ride." Pick her up at the Spruce Street house at 11:30 a.m. Pick her up at the senior center at 1:30 p.m.

Evelyn called the next morning. "Bring a padlock." She dismissed my offer to buy her one on my way over -- she had one, she couldn't find it, could she borrow one for an hour and a half? I took the padlock off an exhibit gate at the telephone museum and headed over.

Evelyn was sitting on the kitchen steps with a brown paper bag in her lap. She was taking her own foot bath -- a tan, plastic wash basin.

The padlock was for the back door. "If I don't lock the house, when I come home and am inside, if I hear a noise, I don't know what it is," she said on the way. "And it's hard for me to see."

She didn't want me to wait. She didn't want to join the others at the long tables for lunch. She wanted to sit in the chairs that were rowed up as the foot-care line. She sat in the first chair, her bag in her lap. And she waited, listening for her turn.

That was Evelyn. "My mother said, 'There'll come a day when you're ready to go.' I'm not ready yet, but I'm getting there."

Two hours later, I came back and she went home and we unlocked the padlock and she went in. I went back to the museum and put the padlock back on the exhibit gate.

And I never saw Evelyn again.

n Robin Black works for the Eisenhower Foundation in Abilene.